Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel (9 page)

“Put the gun down, Fredricks. Brown is clean.”

“Clean? How the hell do you know that?”

Brown’s eyes kept darting back to Mitch, then Fredricks.

“He begged for his life, unlike the… other ones. Why do you have the searchlight pointed at the sky? I thought the guard up here must have been killed.”

“I was trying to signal for help. The West Bank Airport is in that direction. I was hoping to piss off an air traffic controller bad enough that they would send someone our way to investigate.” Fredricks shook badly, sweat rolled down his cheeks like slow rain.

“Fredricks? You okay?”

“No!” Fredricks bit back. “I’m not okay. I’m long overdue for an insulin shot. I put off checking my blood sugar when the inmates took sick. I was too busy moving bodies. My insulin is in my locker. If I don’t get it soon, I’m fucked.”

The shotgun shook so violently that Mitch thought he might drop it, or worse, pull the trigger by accident.

Neither happened, and Fredricks passed out and fell to the ground, still holding the weapon.

Mitch dropped to a knee and felt for a pulse on Fredricks’ neck.

“Is he dead?” Brown asked.

“Not yet. He’s in a diabetic coma. If we don’t get help soon, he’s sure to die.” Fists banging on the door mingled with grunts and moans told him the odds were against getting any help soon.

Mitch rose to his feet and scanned the prison grounds from his vantage point. Several of the inmates seemed to be stuck walking about in a wide circular pattern. A few more passed through the gate, next to the water truck. Mitch looked down on the roof of the truck’s cab. The image of Burl’s face disappearing behind a splatter of blood unnerved him to the core.

“What do you think done all this?” Brown had stepped to Mitch’s side unnoticed.

Mitch chewed his lower lip, and said, “The lust for power, and man’s inhumanity to man.”   

Brown said nothing. He slumped down, resting his back and head against the wall.

Mitch picked up Fredricks’ shotgun and tried to eject any ammo left in it, but found the gun empty. He walked over, sat not far from Brown, and sighed heavily. “You know, Brown, I’ve always meant to ask you why you did it. The murder, I mean. What changed the love you felt for your wife into something that drove you to hate her?”

“Heck, Mr. Mitch, that judge wronged me when he sent me to prison. I always loved my wife, and she always loved me. I never did stop loving her.” His voice changed. It became colder, less in control. “The fact is, I
loved
that woman to death.” Brown chuckled and closed his eyes. He started snoring a few seconds later.

Mitch had a firm grip on his shotgun. The criminal mind never ceased to amaze him. By all accounts, Curtis Brown was a model citizen all his life, except for that one black mark on his record when he strangled his wife for burning the fried chicken. She had found that one crack in his psyche that triggered such a severe punishment.

Mitch realized that Brown had stopped snoring. In fact, he couldn’t hear him breathing either.

He led with the shotgun barrel forward and poked Brown in the stomach.

Nothing.

His hand went to Brown’s throat in a futile attempt to find a pulse.

Brown was dead. Mitch could not take the chance that he would reanimate like the others.

He lifted Brown’s chest over the short wall, and then his feet, sending Brown to the ground below.

“Just another day in paradise,” he said, keeping a sharp eye on the catatonic Fredricks, and doing his best to block out the wailing of the dead.

Chapter 6

The Saga of Ryn and Deb

The familiar squeal of a worn drive belt alerted Ryn that his wife had finally made it home from a long day’s work. The ‘God Bless America’ wall clock next to the Billy Bass singing mechanical fish, whose battery had long run down, read 11:35. He had been so consumed in his work that he completely lost track of time. Something had to be wrong for her to come home this late.
Damn, it’s close to midnight, and her shift ended at ten
.

The engine stopped, the car door closed, and footsteps crunched in gravel until stepping to the door, where the familiar screech of hinges that had rusted in the Louisiana air announced she was inside.

Ryn downed the last of his beer and set the can next to the other eight empties on the desk. He adjusted his shirt to make himself look a little more presentable and pushed the reset to zero on the electronic scale.

Keys hit the kitchen table. His wife, Deb, raced into the doorway to the living room. She stood with her fists placed firmly on her hips as if posing as Superman, or in this case, Superwoman.

Ryn heard her deep breathing behind him. He had been rehearsing this moment on and off throughout the evening. Pretending to ignore her, he added more cut leaves to the scale until it read .07 grams. When you’re in a competitive business, you’ve got to have an edge on your competitors. His approach emphasized the importance of value, and always gave the customers their money’s worth.

“I’m so mad at you I could scream.” The words seeped out of Deb’s mouth, icing the room.

Ryn spun around in his swivel chair. “Me? What’d the fuck I do?” She had caught him totally off guard. He had been ready to spring the good news on her.

“I ran out of gas on my way home. It was over an hour before a guy drove by and brought me to a gas station.”

“How’s that my fault?” Then it dawned on him where this conversation was heading.

“You told me last night that you would fill up my car this morning before I went to work. You were gone when I got up, so I just figured you gassed it up before you went out. We wouldn’t be having this problem if you’d get that damn gas gauge fixed.”

“I’m, I’m sorry, honey. I got a call, a real important call. I completely forgot I was supposed to do that.”

“Thanks for letting me know, asshole.”

“Okay, all right. I deserve that, I guess. I’m sorry.” Ryn looked at his high school sweetheart and remembered the spry, slender thing she used to be. The flower print on the scrubs she wore bulged larger at the stomach than on her chest. He felt sad for her. He felt sorry for himself. Life had been hard for both of them the last couple of years. Deb had been dealing with the stress one bite of junk food at a time, but he knew all of that was about to change. “Why didn’t you call? I would have brought you some gas.”

“The cell phone won’t work. Did you forget to pay the bill?”

“No, it’s set up for auto-pay. We got enough in the account to cover our bills.”

“What a life. I bust my ass taking care of people so bad off they need hospice service, and I come home to more misery! Taking care of my loser husband, who makes a few bucks by dealing dope out of his van. I need a vacation. I need my hair done. I need a manicure and a pedicure and someone who gives a shit about me.” Deb broke down in tears and sobbed into the palm of her hands.

Ryn bit his lip and turned his head. It tore him up inside to see her hurt like this. A picture of his grandfather and father, the only family he had ever known, stared up from the desk’s shelf.

This was not the life Deb expected to have. Ryn was one of those lucky lottery winners who had been born into a family that held a coveted seat in the bar pilot association. That privilege had secured a bar captain license for his father and for his grandfather before him. He had expected to begin his apprenticeship directly out of high school. Once he qualified for his license, he would work two weeks a month, captaining large ocean vessels through the narrow waterways from the mouth of the Mississippi river, up to the city of New Orleans. Being a bar pilot was an exclusive, if dangerous, position. Each captain was responsible for the safe delivery of cargo and passengers aboard very large ships in very confined waterways. Bar Captains were considered nautical rock stars. It was a state job that paid salaries topping three-hundred thousand a year.

Ryn’s grandfather had given up his time on the river and took over his father’s position in the association. Ryn’s future had been fully planned out. He had promised Deb a life of luxury. Instead, that plan had all blown up before they even graduated high school. 

Ryn’s father had taken a bend in the river too close to shore and ran an oil tanker aground. He then lost his license when he tested beyond the legal limit for alcohol. To make matters worse, Ryn’s grandfather died a few months later. Ryn no longer had any representation in the bar pilot association. When he became of legal age to join the apprenticeship, the congressman representing the district had already sold his family’s seat on the association. Ryn’s application was rejected.

His dad had, by then, crawled into a bottle and lived his life in a shack on some unnamed bayou. He spent his days drinking beer and pole fishing from his pier.

To ease the pain of his situation, Ryn received a half million dollars inheritance from his grandfather’s death. He and Deb had rented a nice condo in the Garden District of New Orleans. Life had been wonderful at first. They would party every night and sleep all day.

After a few years, he realized that at least an equal amount of money needed to be coming in as was going out. It was the gambling that had brought about his ultimate demise. He had lost everything, and even more than that. His only chance to save his life was to flee and hide. Botte was, apparently, one of the best places to go to drop off the face of the Earth.  

He had fished at first to earn a living, but was never able to get ahead. Dealing drugs proved to be slightly more profitable, and now he was just about to hit the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, baby. Don’t cry. Here, sit down and relax.”

Deb collapsed in a chair; face still planted in her palms.

“I got some news. Pull yourself together.” Ryn plucked a joint off the table from the pile he had rolled earlier. He slapped his front pocket and found it empty, and then spotted a lighter on the coffee table. A flick of the Bic produced a flame that lit the foot of the joint held between his lips. The distinct, sweet aroma of burning weed filled the room. Ryn inhaled and held it in. He pulled the joint from his mouth and motioned it toward Deb.

“About your DWI? What’d the judge say at your preliminary? You get off with a fine like you thought?” She hesitated, but took the joint, snatching it quickly, and filled her lungs.

Ryn exhaled slowly with his eyelids half open. “Didn’t make it. I’ll go by tomorrow, and tell them I was too sick to come, or something. Remember I told you I had a change of plans today.” His face lit up with pride. “I got five pounds of aspirin to deliver that’s going to pay a hundred grand.”  

  Deb’s eyes widened as she fought to hold her breath. “A hundred grand? For aspirin?” she said in her exhale.

“Not aspirin,
aspirin
. Coke, blow, you know.”

“You’ve got five pounds of cocaine? In our house?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you fucking insane?” Deb sprang from the chair and raised her hands in the air. “That much dope can get us put away for life.”

“Hold on, don’t get all paranoid on me. This is going to lead to bigger things.”

“Yeah, like a bigger hole in your head. You start messing with hard stuff like that and you’ll get killed. You won’t be dealing with backwoods hicks. It will be guys from Mexican cartels. They’ll—wait! What’s that?” Deb froze.

“What’s what?”

“Shhh . . .outside. The chickens.”

“I—” Ryn held his words and listened. “I hear it too.” He chuckled. “Probably a coyote or a snake looking for eggs.”

“Or gang-bangers looking for five pounds of coke. You’re going to get us killed,” Deb said in a whisper.  

Ryn rubbed his hand through his oily hair. “Stop worrying. I’ll handle this right now.” He opened the desk drawer and pulled a .357 from its holster. He flipped the cylinder open and confirmed it was fully loaded. With a flip of his wrist, the cylinder snapped back into place, just like he’d seen Clint Eastwood do a hundred times.

He put a finger to his lips indicating Deb to remain quiet and turned off the living room light. Ryn opened the front door and pushed the screen door open slowly so the rusted springs wouldn’t squeak. Once outside, he put his back to the siding and hugged the house all the way to the rear.

Whatever was in the coop, it was having a heyday with the hens. There was no way a thief would make that much noise. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ryn trotted to the ageing barn some thirty feet away.

He slowed and came to a stop at the entrance. It was too dark for him to see the predator and take a shot. So, he flipped the light switch, and held his pistol out, ready to shoot.

“Hey!” Ryn shouted. A large man dressed in prison orange stood with his back to him. Paradis State Prison was only two miles down the road, but he had heard no warning on the automatic call system alerting him to a breakout.

“Don’t move! I got a gun on you. I’ll use it. Hey! I’m talking to—”

The prisoner turned and snarled with a half-eaten chicken in his hands. Blood surrounded his mouth like a bad lipstick job. Feathers stuck to it.

Bile burned up Ryn’s throat, gagging him. The prisoner’s face contorted in a way that made it looker no longer human. The eyes, void of life, sent chills down Ryn’s body. He pulled the trigger and shot the inmate in the stomach out of pure terror. The blast from the pistol told him that shit just got real.

The hollow point bullet opened a hole large enough for what looked like an upper intestine and some other visceral material to spill out. The inmate’s body shook at the impact, but he remained standing.

Ryn tried to usher another warning, but couldn’t find the words. His heart pounded in his chest, and his hands shook.

The inmate let the chicken drop and extended his arms as he stepped toward Ryn.

Three more shots rang out, with one bullet hitting center chest, and one directly in the heart.

The inmate clawed at Ryn’s face. A fingernail tore into the terrified drug dealer’s cheek.

Ryn fought to keep the inmate’s arms away. In one swift move, it bit down on the forearm of his gun hand. The inmate dug his fingers into Ryn’s other arm and pulled him close to the gaping hole in his own abdomen.

Stunned, Ryn tried to tear himself away, but couldn’t budge from the behemoth’s embrace. Teeth gnawing on bone forced Ryn to emit a high-pitched scream and sent a surge of adrenaline through him that redoubled the futile efforts to escape.

Finally, he managed to jerk his gun arm free. The inmate pulled away with a mouthful of skin and a small chunk of flesh, chewing it greedily only inches away from Ryn’s eyes.

Ryn bought the pistol to the inmate’s head. The gun fired, spraying red-covered brain matter on the east wall and the chickens behind the thin wire. The discharge was right by Ryn’s ear, and the blast hit him like a sucker punch in a barroom fight.

The inmate dropped to the ground. Ryn fell to his knees with the pistol raised and aimed to fire again. His arms felt like lead. His whole body quivered, and he realized he had pissed his pants.

A force hit him from the side and pinned his wrists to the ground. Another inmate was on top of him, and this prisoner was as ghoulish as the other. He brought his chicken-blood stained teeth directly at Ryn’s face.

Ryn thrust his head forward and smashed the zombie smack in the mouth. He used the top of his head the best he could to keep those teeth away from any fleshy parts of his face. Undeterred, the inmate proceeded to gnaw at Ryn’s hair and tear at his scalp.

The situation seemed hopeless. Time was running out, and he knew he didn’t have much longer before he would succumb to the inmate’s superior strength.

As a last ditch effort, Ryn craned his neck toward his gun hand and bit down on the inmate’s thumb. This move put his left ear straight in the path of the creature’s—Ryn couldn’t consider it a man—next bite.

He pulled on the inmate’s thumb with his teeth, fighting to free his hand. Teeth smashed into Ryn’s forehead as he managed to free his hand from the clutches of the man-eater and twist his head around.

The first shot went high in his haste to take aim. One second later, he had the barrel of the pistol shoved in the inmate’s eye. 

Bam!
A fountain of blood and grey matter spewed into the air, some of it falling back on Ryn’s face. The monster fell, dead weight on top of him.

It didn’t matter that Ryn’s strength was spent. He squirmed like a worm on hot concrete until he freed himself from underneath the hulking mass.

Chickens clucked in the background as he fought to regain his breath. Warm blood trickled down the side of his head from the scalp wounds. His forearm throbbed around the bite and burned like fire. Trembling legs finally found enough firm ground that he was able to pull himself off the dusty barn floor.