After cranking the jack upward, I ushered my friends back into the van, climbed into the driver’s seat, and liberally coated my cracked hands with sanitizing gel—which, needless to say, stung like hell. Then, I revved up the engine and continued our journey up north.
None of us said a thing—either to Clare or to one another. Hunger and exhaustion dulled our senses, and we were all simply too dazed from everything that had befallen us. There could be no words to express the horror and hopelessness we all felt—and I suspected we’d find it ever more challenging to overcome our shell shock in the days and nights ahead.
Chapter
20
“Don’t be sorry, it’s my fault. I should have known if a guy like me talked to a girl like you, somebody would end up dead.” – Dale, Tucker and Dale vs. Evil (2010)
The five of us—Azazel included—sat in uneasy silence for the next twenty minutes. While I navigated a series of meandering gravel and dirt roads through Homochitto National Forest—attempting to put as much distance between us and our most recent horrors as possible and doing my best to avoid zombies, corpses, and abandoned vehicles along the way—George and Casey rested (or tried to) on the dining benches behind me. Azazel napped inside her carrier, which now sat on the floor beside the sofa, and Clare lay above her in the fetal position, her face buried in the blanket her mother had so recently used.
Given Jill’s oozing infection, I wanted to caution my wife about her chosen mourning spot. Better to burn the bedding and sanitize the couch before curling up on it. But I doubted she’d listen to me—or even hear the words coming out of my mouth. As usual, I just had to hope for the best.
Each of us, except perhaps my snoozing tiger, spent the trip quietly attempting to come to terms with the fucked-up memories of the previous twenty-four hours. Clare was having an even tougher time than the rest of us.
By the time we reached U.S. Route 84, however, she’d ceased crying altogether. I feared she’d shifted from sadness to shock, but before I could check on her, she shuffled toward the front, reclaimed her seat, and set Azazel’s carrier on her lap. After what had befallen her mother, she was obviously reluctant to leave our kitty far from her grasp.
I glanced at her, noting her reddened eyes and tear-streaked face. “This is a stupid question, I know, but how’re you doing?”
She sniffled then met my sympathetic gaze. “Not great.” She shrugged. “What can I say? I miss her, Joe. I know she could be a real pain in the ass, especially to you, but… she was still my mom. I can’t believe she’s gone. And I can’t get over the fact that I totally failed her.”
“No, baby, you didn’t,” I replied, snatching a glimpse of the tree-lined highway before meeting my wife’s eyes again. “You drove all the way to Baton Rouge to save her. It’s not your fault the damn zombies came early, and it’s definitely not your fault that one of ’em scratched her.”
“Maybe,” she said, sniffling again. “But I should’ve stopped her from staying outside. You should’ve let me. I mean, what if there is a cure? How do you think I’ll feel then?”
I sighed, turning back to the windshield. “I really doubt there’s a cure. I doubt they’ll ever find one. But, baby, even if they do, your mom wouldn’t have survived that long.” I gazed at Clare again. “You would’ve lost your mother anyway, and if I’d let you try to bring her back inside the van, I would’ve lost you.”
She offered me a melancholy smile, sniffled once more, but shed no additional tears. “I know you’re right… but it doesn’t make it any easier.” She gazed down at Azazel’s carrier, then stared straight ahead, the conversation clearly over.
I glanced back to see if George and Casey had been listening to us, but they’d each crossed their forearms on the table and laid their heads atop their wrists. Didn’t seem like a comfortable way to sleep, but I imagined they were too tired to care.
A few minutes later, as we neared the town of Meadville, Mississippi, Clare broke the silence again.
“So much has happened…” She paused, as if bracing herself for fresh tears. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you about your conversation with John. I heard snippets, but not everything. What did he say before you got cut off?”
I smirked. “You mean, before we were swarmed by a raging horde of kiddie zombies?”
She winced.
Realizing my mistake, I hurried to explain, “He told us not to come for him. He and Laney had already fled St. Louis. Apparently, they were in Indiana, headed up north.”
“Didn’t I hear him mention James?”
“Yeah, he said he hadn’t heard from him. Guess the Detroit area got hit pretty hard. Course, I’m sure all the cities are toast.”
“I hope they’re OK.”
“I’m sure they are,” I replied, not sure of anything. “James’ll get them outta there.”
Them referred to James, my middle brother, as well as his three grown daughters.
Helen, the oldest, had graduated from college about five months earlier and since become a personal trainer. Not the sort that could merely customize workouts and bust her clients’ butts at the gym, but the kind that possessed all the knowledge necessary, from nutrition to psychology, to help other people become their best selves. Before the zombies arrived and fucked up her career (among other things), she’d been working with several top athletes, including some recognizable names from the Lions, Tigers, and Pistons.
Rexy, the middle child, was an artist and mathematics whiz who’d been majoring in theater before the shitstorm hit. Though a bit more creative and empathetic than her sisters, she hadn’t, ironically, strived to become an actress upon graduation. Instead, she preferred to work behind the scenes, specializing in set construction. In other words, she was handy with power tools.
Lola, the youngest and still a high-school senior, was definitely the daredevil of the bunch—always game for anything. She’d excelled in gymnastics at a young age, skydived at twelve, gone on a solo camping trip at fourteen, and, at fifteen, broken her ankle attempting to leap between two buildings on her high-school campus. By the time she’d reached her senior year, she’d experienced no less than three car accidents, each of which had resulted in multiple rollovers but, thankfully, minor injuries. No one in the family knew how she’d managed those—or survived them—but such near-death scrapes only bolstered her daredevil status and demonstrated a definite streak of indestructibility. Which could potentially serve her well in a zombie apocalypse.
James’s girls were tough, capable young ladies. Not surprisingly, he was proud of all three of them—and would do anything to keep them alive. Luckily, though, they were skilled enough to keep him breathing, too. So, perhaps the four of them had indeed survived the Detroit shitstorm and made it safely to northern Michigan. Of all the family members possibly converging upon our “compound” up north, they had the fewest miles to travel—and the fewest cities to avoid.
John’s only daughter, Laney, was a different story. As smart and beautiful as her cousins, the first-year law student had long ago explained to the family that, should a zombie apocalypse ever occur, she’d be utterly useless. In fact, she’d gone so far as to inform us—at the ripe old age of fourteen—that she’d rather die than live in a world crawling with the undead and lacking in modern conveniences and luxuries, such as electricity, reliable plumbing, and high fashion.
Eight years later, such a hypothetical calamity had indeed befallen society, and I couldn’t help but wonder how John had managed to get her through the initial three days of the zombie tsunami swamping the globe.
“What about your parents?” Clare asked.
“I didn’t have time to ask him.”
True, I’d had to cut our conversation short, but still, I figured John would’ve told me if he’d heard from our mom and dad. For one thing, he would’ve been impressed that they’d actually figured out how to use the shortwave radio I’d shipped them a couple weeks back.
For the past twenty years or so
, our parents had split their time between their primary home on a Florida golf course and the isolated Michigan property we were all desperate to reach. Both die-hard golfers, the two of them had only been a week into their seasonal stay in Florida when I’d received word of the impending Zombiegeddon.
Not surprisingly, they hadn’t believed a word of my tall tale. So, as much as I wanted to believe that they’d survived the initial wave of the undead invasion, I admittedly had trouble envisioning how two senior citizens in their mid-seventies would fend off a bunch of ravenous zombies, gather the necessary supplies for the trip, and, without incident, cover the fifteen hundred miles that lay between their two houses.
Before I could shift my worrisome mind into high gear, Clare spoke up again.
“I hope my dad’s alright. My aunts, too.”
As an only child, Clare didn’t have an extensive family. No siblings or first cousins, and all her grandparents were long deceased. But she still had a father down in southern Louisiana, a maternal aunt in Baton Rouge, and a paternal aunt in Minneapolis, and only a few days before, she had spoken to all three of them. Unfortunately, though, none of them had believed our crackpot theories, so it was anyone’s guess where they were now. If they were even still alive.
I didn’t know how to respond to my wife without resorting to dishonesty, something I only did when absolutely necessary. After what Clare had recently endured, I couldn’t bring myself to dash her hopes and upset her even more by revealing my true suspicions.
Luckily, though, I didn’t have to say anything. Why? Because, just then, Azazel unleashed the heart-wrenching cry that usually preceded a hairball episode.
“Aw, poor baby,” Clare cooed.
Normally, our cat was a pretty adaptable traveler, but given all the stress and upheaval she’d experienced since fleeing our French Quarter apartment, I was actually surprised she hadn’t puked sooner. No doubt she’d groomed herself more nervously than usual, resulting in her present convulsions and retching sounds.
Once she’d finished hacking up two clumps of matted fur and some partially digested tuna—inadvertently rousing George and Casey from their uneasy naps—Clare opened the gate of Azazel’s carrier, wiped off her blanket, and stroked her little head. Then, in customary fashion, our cat curled into a ball and went back to sleep as if nothing had happened.
“Did you put that pink ribbon on her?” Clare asked, clearly having forgotten that she’d already voiced that question back at the overrun campsite.
Given that her mother had died during the interim, I ignored the unusual brain fart.
“No clue,” I replied. “Didn’t you see her back at the campsite? When she came back from wherever she’d gone? Just strolled past me and Casey and hopped back in the van like it was no biggie.”
Clare peered inside the carrier. “Looks like she managed to get it off, but now, she’s sleeping on it.”
“Guess our girl had a wee adventure in the woods. Too bad she can’t tell us about it.”
Then, in a rare moment of cursing, Clare said, “I’m just glad one of those little fuckers didn’t get her.” She sighed sadly. “Like they got my mom.”
Again, the van fell silent. Just in time for me to slam on my brakes.
“Knew our luck was too good to last,” I muttered.
George emerged from the dining nook, stretching her neck. “What’s wrong?”
But I didn’t need to respond. Even in the dim lighting, the problem was obvious—a complete snarl of cars and bodies at the junction of 84 East and 98 South. Not to mention roving zombies who’d noticed our idling vehicle.
I banged the steering wheel with my fists. “Dammit, I was planning to take 84 to I-55. Thought it might be a quicker route up north.”
“Why?” George asked. “The interstates are usually the biggest parking lots of them all.”
“True,” I grumbled. “I was just hoping something would go right for once.”
“Well, we’d better make a decision fast,” Clare urged. “We’re gonna have company soon.”
Casey slipped past his mom, grabbed my tablet, and, by surveying the various maps I’d stored on the device, helped me backtrack through Meadville to a paved, northerly route called Hospital Road.
As I continued north, eventually veering onto a two-lane thoroughfare named after the small town of Union Church, the rest of the group tried to rejuvenate themselves with some overdue water and snacks. Clare kindly nourished me and Azazel, too.
Bad enough that we hadn’t slept in a while. We couldn’t allow ourselves to get weak from thirst and hunger as well.
North of the national forest, I finally caught Highway 28, which, if unimpeded, would lead us northeast to the cozy town of Hazlehurst, where I hoped we could connect to I-55. Over the years, Clare and I had stopped there often on our travels between New Orleans and northern Michigan.
With less than four thousand residents—who hopefully hadn’t all morphed into zombies by now—Hazlehurst wasn’t a big place. But it offered enough restaurants, gas stations, and stores to make for a helpful pit stop on lengthy road trips through southern Mississippi.
“I’d like to stop in Hazlehurst,” I abruptly announced.
“Why?” Clare asked. “Something wrong?”
“Wait,” George said from the dining nook. “Think that’s a good idea?”
Obviously, both women fretted that we’d run into more trouble. Maybe worse than our varied scrapes in Homochitto. Given our luck thus far, I couldn’t really blame them.
“I know stopping is always a risk, but I’d like to get some more gas before we go any further.”
“Are we low?” George asked, stepping behind my seat and peering at the dashboard.
“Not yet,” I admitted, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror, “but it might be tough to find any up north. I’d rather stock up down here, if possible.”
George frowned, no doubt recalling the last time we’d stopped—when she’d nearly met her end, thanks to the upper half of a zombified gymnast. “Yeah, but—”
“Look, if we top off the gas tank and fill the black-water one, I think we could avoid stopping for a while.”
“What’s a black-water tank?” Casey asked.
“That toilet in the back,” I explained, “would usually be attached to a sewage tank that I’d have to empty at some point. While getting the van ready for the road, I sanitized and converted it into a spare gas tank. Same with the gray-water one. In fact, between the three tanks, we can carry over sixty gallons of gas.”
And luckily, I’d already filled the gray-water tank back in New Orleans.
Casey’s brow furrowed in confusion. “So, wait, what’s the toilet hooked up to?”
George smiled, resuming her seat at the table. “I think he’s got it set up like the one at your dad’s old fishing camp.”
Fishing camps in southern Louisiana, at least those only accessible via boat, often dumped their waste directly into the Gulf of Mexico. Not exactly sanitary or legal, but if it was good enough for the fish, nutria, waterfowl, and alligators, then it was certainly good enough for me.
While George and Casey chatted about better times at the old fishing camp, the wrinkles on Clare’s forehead only deepened.
“Don’t you think all the gas will be out? We haven’t seen a functioning station this whole trip.”
“Guess we’ll just have to see. If none of the pumps are working in Hazlehurst, then we’ll try siphoning some gas from any abandoned vehicles we spot.”
“That definitely doesn’t sound smart. It’s still dark out.”
Sunrise was only a couple hours away, but honestly, I’d hoped to be parked in a safe place by then, snoozing away the day—and possibly the night.
“I know, but desperate times and all…” I smiled encouragingly. “We’ll have to get gas at some point. We can’t make it all the way to Michigan with what we have. And trying to find some in a small town in southern Mississippi will likely be easier than
in a more populated place.”
Her forehead remained crinkled with skepticism and concern, but she said nothing in response.
“I know you’re worried. I am, too. But I’d rather stock up now than risk running out in the middle of nowhere.”
After a few pensive seconds, she reluctantly nodded. George and Casey agreed to give it a shot as well.
We all knew that, in a zombie apocalypse, nothing was risk-free. But after everything we’d experienced—and lost—over the past few days, I could understand my companions’ reluctance to emerge from the van before it seemed absolutely necessary.
Hell, I wasn’t too thrilled about it either.
Chapter
21
“I will NOT calm down! This is the second time I’ve been hit with a severed head and I DON’T LIKE IT!” – Kelly Scott, Lake Placid (1999)
Eventually, we reached the small community of Hazlehurst, and thanks to the ever-helpful moonlight plus some distant flames lighting up the night sky, we easily spotted the I-55 overpass arching over the highway. George and Casey stood behind the front seats, surveying the quiet town through the dingy windshield.
Quiet was an understatement.
Having assumed I-55 would be a parking lot of fleeing people, the four of us were shocked to discover how empty it seemed. Unable to determine if that was a good omen or a bad one, we continued slowly toward the overpass.
On the southbound side of the interstate, we noticed that both the exit and entrance had been blocked by vehicles. Like, a lot of vehicles.
As far as we could see on either ramp, cars and trucks of every make and model were crammed together all the way to the actual interstate. Many were overturned, charred, or still smoldering, with numerous bodies—or, rather, the remains of bodies—lying on the road around them. Even in the moonlight, we could detect the blood and gore staining the pavement, and it seemed as if every window had been smashed and most of the doors ripped from their hinges.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 62
