What a fucking horrifying thought! Zombified alligators hot on our trail!
Then I remembered Sadie and her zombie-killing pet gator. If Sugar had yet to turn, perhaps the world wasn’t as hopelessly lost as I’d thought.
But don’t get me wrong: It was still pretty damn fucked. A fierce, strong-willed woman had just been compelled to kill herself – right in front of six of her friends. All so she wouldn’t turn into a soulless monster who craved the flesh of those she loved.
If Clare and I had been watching a horror movie back home in the French Quarter, we might’ve noted the fact that Gigi had been the only dark-skinned member of the group. (“Figures the poor black woman had to be the first to go,” Clare would’ve likely lamented.)
But, unfortunately, I wasn’t living in a movie. It was real life – and either Mother Nature had just as many racist tendencies as Hollywood, or more likely, she simply didn’t give a shit about any of us.
My chest tightened at the thought of the man Gigi had mentioned while handing Bertha her necklace: Wayne. No doubt he’d be devastated to learn the news, and I didn’t envy Bertha’s duty to break it to him.
While such disturbing thoughts tumbled around in my head, Bertha doggedly kept her own mind on the task at hand.
“Mr. Jimmy…” she tried again.
A few awkward seconds passed, and then a crackling sound came through the walkie-talkie.
“Sorry, Bertha,” an older male voice replied. “My bladder ain’t what it used to be. Seems like I can’t go ten minutes without havin’ to take a piss.”
Ally giggled from her post behind me. Roughly two decades younger than I was, she probably had yet to consider the inevitable inconveniences of old age. At the overripe age of forty-five, I’d already given the matter plenty of thought, and I dreaded having an unreliable bladder (and other uncooperative parts). I was tempted to turn around and playfully scold the young widow with my eyes, but I decided to keep my attention on the western bank of the bayou – and the much more pressing issues that awaited us on shore.
“No problem, Mr. Jimmy,” Bertha said. “Just wanted to let you know we’ll be pulling into town in less than five minutes.”
“Well, hell, if you’re that close, the boys might as well unload,” he said. “Good luck.”
A moment later, a barrage of gunfire sounded in the distance.
I turned to Bertha, one eyebrow cocked in confusion.
“Jimmy has two grandsons,” Bertha explained. “About twelve and fourteen. They’ve been waiting for us to show up. As soon as we got close enough, they were gonna shoot at the barriers to try drawing the sheriff’s attention.” Her gaze drifted from me to the shore. “I can only hope that’s what they’re doing.”
“Pretty dangerous job for a couple of kids.”
“It’s OK. They’re up in the water tower, just outside town. No zombies can reach them there.”
“Hell, you don’t know that,” I retorted. “For all we know, those nasty fuckers can climb.”
“Doubtful,” Bertha said, her forehead creased. “But even so, once the sheriff and his gang start firing, it should draw the herds right back toward the barriers.”
All dangers aside, it sounded like a pretty good diversion. At least for us. While the assholes in town focused on their latest trouble, we might be able to slip off Bayou Narcisse unnoticed.
Hey, even delusional guys can dream.
As Bertha, Sally, Ellen, and Tonya began stowing all the gear and preparing the barge for docking, Gretchen steered us by moonlight toward a deserted landing site south of East Bayou Narcisse Road. Gunfire continued to ring out in the distance, and without incident, we slowly approached a wide section of the bayou that met a crumbling piece of asphalt on the western shore.
During the planning stages of their death-defying caper, Bertha had chosen the spot for two main reasons: one, because it was just the right height to accommodate the barge ramp, enabling us to unload the vehicles with relative ease, and two, because it sat at the end of a long-abandoned street once utilized by a now-defunct lumber mill. In other words, we’d be able to drive off the barge and into town without anyone spotting us.
Yeah, right.
While Gretchen beached us at the chosen landing site, Ally and I remained on watch for snipers, zombies, gators, and anything else intending to maim or murder us. To be fair, we hadn’t seen a zombie in a while, likely thanks to the barriers the as-yet-unseen assholes had erected around Gonzales. Nevertheless, we didn’t relinquish our posts – or our rifles – until Sally and Bertha had secured the ramp and Gretchen had shut down the engines.
Once the whirring, rumbling sounds of the marine motors had died away, an eerie stillness settled into place. Even the birds, frogs, and crickets seemed to have vacated the premises.
But, as usual, I had little time to linger – and absolutely no time to muse on the profoundly disheartening changes happening in the world around me. So, while Ellen and Tonya disengaged the wheels of the SUV and Gretchen carefully drove the vehicle down the ramp and onto the shore, I climbed into my rig, secured my rifle, and briefly reflected on the plan.
Bertha, Ally, and I would ride in my van, while the other four women would hop into the SUV. Then, once both loaded vehicles had disembarked, we would slowly head south into downtown Gonzales.
In a likely inadequate effort to divide and conquer, the ladies would take the SUV down South Irma Boulevard to the front of the Ascension Parish Sheriff’s Office, which housed the jail cells in question, while I’d drive my van to the rear of the building. We figured the parish sheriff, the local police chief, and their boys wouldn’t surrender the prisoners willingly, which meant, despite the barrage of gunfire near the town barriers, the jail could still be inconveniently guarded – especially if they’d heard our battle on the bayou. So, it seemed smarter to approach them from two sides.
Clunking sounds beneath my vehicle snapped me back to the present. Ellen and Tonya were apparently liberating my tires, meaning the time had come to get off the boat.
Terrific. Another chance for my van to slip into the bayou.
Trying to focus on the positive, I started my engine, prayed Azazel was in a safe place, and headed for the ramp. A few tense moments later, my rear wheels hit the crumbling asphalt road, and I exhaled heavily.
Leaving the ramp ready for our hopefully triumphant return, Ellen, Tonya, and Sally joined Gretchen in the SUV while Bertha and Ally climbed into my van.
For several minutes, I followed the SUV down the deserted streets of Gonzales. It was unnerving to see no burning cars or roving zombies, as I’d witnessed in other towns. Strange as that might sound, the sad fact was that facing no immediate dangers made me more anxious about the hidden ones.
Just after crossing the New River, Gretchen turned right, and Ally instructed me to keep heading south. Even though I’d only known the ladies for a short time, it felt wrong to split up – and I couldn’t help but hope that Gretchen and the other three women would be OK on their own.
Of course, I didn’t have long to worry about them. Soon enough, we arrived at the rear of a government complex that also contained the parish courthouse. For some weird reason, I’d expected to see an old antebellum plantation home or some equally charming edifice transformed into a municipal building, but Gonzales had turned out to be a lot more modern than other towns in southern Louisiana.
Who cares, Joe? This is no time for a fucking architectural tour!
Even with the distant gunfire, I feared my rumbling engine would be a dead giveaway of our presence, so as soon as I parked, I immediately shut it off, strapped on a couple of handguns, and grabbed the Mossberg. I almost took the rifle, too, but I didn’t want to be too overburdened – in case running was required. Or successfully shooting anyone.
Besides, Ally and Bertha were likely more competent with the long-range weapons. Keeping it simple would keep me alive.
That’s the theory anyway.
After the
two women had slipped out the passenger door, I paused to take one more look around the gloomy interior of my van.
“Not sure where you are, girl,” I said aloud, “but I’ll be back soon.”
I held my breath expectantly, but nothing happened. No shifting shadow. No agreeable meow. Silly as it might seem, Clare and I never liked leaving our cat without telling her goodbye, but apparently, Azazel didn’t share the same need.
At least not on a fucked-up day like this.
With a heavy sigh, I hopped down to the asphalt, locked the van, and followed my companions toward the sheriff’s office. To keep a low profile (my loud engine notwithstanding), we’d opted not to use flashlights out in the open, but fortunately, the moonlight was substantial enough to illuminate our path.
It was also bright enough to spot movement off to our right. Quickly, I swung my shotgun toward a figure emerging from the shadows: a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties wearing a camo-style army uniform.
“Whoa there, fella,” he said, lifting his own weapon while continuing to close the gap between us.
Ally turned toward me and, shaking her head, touched the barrel of my gun. “He’s a friend.”
Though I readily complied and lowered the Mossberg, the supposed “friend” did not do the same.
He turned instead to Bertha. “Who’s this joker?”
“He’s a friend, too,” Ally said. “Jus’ helpin’ us out so he can get back to Airline an’ find his wife.”
He squinted at me in appraisal, then shrugged and lowered his pistol. “If you say so. Just wanted to make sure you were OK. Especially since your approach wasn’t as quiet as I’d expected.”
My neck grew warm. He was dissing my zombie-mobile. Only I had the right to do that. But despite the offense (accurate as it might’ve been), I decided to stay quiet and keep the peace.
Besides, he could’ve been referring to the multitude of bullets we’d unloaded on the bayou. True, we’d had zombies to fend off, but still, our northward journey hadn’t been terribly ninja-like.
“We appreciate that, Tom,” Bertha whispered. “But we don’t have much time. Are all our men inside?”
Tom nodded. “Yep. They’re down in the jail cells.”
“Good,” Bertha replied. “Let’s get this over with. Tom, you lead the way. Joe and I will follow you. And Ally, you keep an eye on our rear.”
Tom eyed our weapons. “Sounds good, but could y’all spare a gun?” He touched his pistol grip. “This one’s low on ammo.”
“No problem.” Ally handed him her rifle and drew a .45 Magnum from her hip holster.
I stifled a laugh. Given her petite frame, the pistol seemed as large as her forearm. But, based on her determined expression, I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it. Besides, I’d already seen her in action.
“Thanks,” Tom said as he examined the loaner.
Bertha surveyed our faces. “OK, let’s do this.”
“Wait.” Tom touched her forearm. “Miss Bertha, where’s my mom? She OK?”
“She’s fine,” Bertha replied. “She’s around front with the others.”
She didn’t mention Gigi’s absence, of course, but then it wasn’t an ideal time to dole out such shitty news.
Tom sighed with relief.
Ally turned to me. “He’s da one we told ya about. Ellen’s son.”
“The one threatening to blow up the town?”
“Dat’s da one,” Ally replied.
Tom grinned sheepishly. “Sorry for being so rude a minute ago. It’s hard to trust strangers these days.” He sighed. “Neighbors, too.”
“Tell me about it.”
A smile broke across his face, maybe in spite of himself, and he extended his hand toward me. “Joe, is it? I’m Tom Buroker.”
“Joe Daniels,” I said, shaking his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“You, too.” Tom released his grip. “OK, let’s go.”
He turned toward the building and led us to a short staircase.
At the bottom of the steps, Bertha asked, “Any idea who’s left in there?”
Tom rubbed his scruffy chin. “The Gonzales police chief and most of the Guardsmen cut out toward the gunshots. So, I think it’s just the parish sheriff and a few of his deputies left in there.”
“That coward, Sheriff Arston?” Ally spat.
His eyes darkening, he nodded solemnly. “I’m so sorry, Miss Ally. There was nothing I could do.”
“We know, Tom,” Bertha said.
Reading between the lines, I assumed the parish sheriff had murdered Ally’s husband in cold blood – and if not for Tom’s quick thinking and apparent skill with explosives, more of the ladies’ partners would’ve likely shared the same fate.
The distant gunfire tapered off, leaving us in uneasy silence.
Bertha held up her walkie-talkie and pressed the side button. “Everyone ready?”
“For Gigi,” Sally replied.
“For Gigi,” Bertha said. “Go!”
Immediately, more gunfire erupted. This time, though, it sounded much closer – just on the other side of the complex, in fact.
Additional gunshots soon responded. Sally and the other three women had obviously snagged Sheriff Arston’s attention.
Wasting no time, Tom and the rest of us ascended the steps. Once I reached the landing, I momentarily forgot about the plan, bolted toward the double security doors, and tried the two handles. After discovering they were both locked, I started kicking the steel doors that blocked our access. Pointless, of course, but I felt desperate. How the hell would we breach the rear entrance before the skirmish fell apart out front? The lives of the incarcerated men weren’t the only ones at stake. Their wives were in harm’s way, too.
And hell, so am I!
Tom grabbed my shoulder and gently pulled me backward. Smirking, he held up a key.
“I got this,” he said.
It was my turn to grin sheepishly. Of course, the guy who’d been savvy enough to plant explosives, threaten the selfish assholes in charge, and keep himself cleverly hidden from them would’ve also managed to swipe a fucking key.
Without another word, Tom quietly unlocked one of the doors, and the four of us headed inside the darkened building. Despite all the crazy things I’d done since waking up in my courtyard with a monstrous headache, my chest tightened in anticipation. It was the start of my first jailbreak, after all.
Of course, in the new crazy-as-fuck world that I’d found myself in, I figured it probably wouldn’t be my last.
Chapter
8
“Freedom, baby… is never having to say you’re sorry.” – John Milton, The Devil’s Advocate (1997)
After quietly shutting the door, Tom ushered me and the ladies along the rear wall of the building. Although the exterior of the Ascension Parish Sheriff’s Office might’ve looked more modern than I’d expected, the interior actually did remind me of an old plantation. Not because of its decor (which resembled that of most sterile office buildings), but due to its practical design.
As with the shotgun houses prominent throughout New Orleans, a wide corridor led from the front doors of that part of the complex to the rear ones – almost as if it had been arranged to allow refreshing breezes to blow through the entire structure, from one end to the other. A feature that might prove necessary on the warmer days ahead, given that air-conditioning wouldn’t function in a permanent blackout.
Unfortunately, the design also made it difficult for us to conceal ourselves. With the aid of several electric lanterns peppered throughout the bullpen, I observed five armed men standing or crouching near the partially open front doors, shooting at someone outside. Probably Gretchen and the other three women. And if I could discern the five “officers” in the poor lighting, it wouldn’t take much for one of the bastards to spot us.
Thankfully, Tom guided us out of sight before a new problem had reared its untimely head. As tempting as it might’ve seemed to shoot the five men from b
ehind and spare the ladies out front, we couldn’t be sure they were the only on-site enemies – and we still had prisoners to spring. In short, we couldn’t afford to ignite another firefight.
Not yet anyway.
I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if any of the men gathered near the front doors was the infamous sheriff, the one that had killed Ally’s husband. Her pinched face made it hard to tell; she probably wanted to shoot them all.
Just for good measure.
But, thankfully, she didn’t even ready her gun, much less fire. None of us did.
Instead, we kept our heads down, our guns aimed at the tiled floor, and our footsteps as soft as possible. Taking advantage of the distraction our friends had staged out front, we slipped into a stairwell on the right side of the corridor.
Lined in concrete, the staircase guided us downward to a windowless level partially situated underground and doubtlessly fortified against flooding. Architecture in southern Louisiana, after all, wasn’t known for sporting basements, thanks to the high water table.
All the way down the stairs, we could hear the shouts of angry men and women, and as we emerged into a sixty-foot-long corridor, the shouts naturally loudened in intensity. Directly across from the stairwell lay an empty guard station. If a similar station existed at the far end of the corridor, it was likely empty, too. All hands were surely needed elsewhere – and despite the prisoners’ impressive vocal cords, they weren’t exactly a flight risk.
Between us and a staircase at the far end, which presumably led to the front of the building, stood eight barred jail cells – four on each side – apparently all filled. Even in a space barely lit by electric lanterns, I could see the knuckles of at least a dozen people gripping the bars. So, it seemed we were liberating more than just the husbands of my new friends. As problematic as that might be, it comforted me that Bertha, Ally, and the other women had an actual rebel army on their side.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 36
