Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou

by Martone, D. L.

  “Good luck wit’ dat,” the woman on my right side said, her blonde bob swishing as she snorted.

  Five-foot-nothing but lean and muscular, she appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Hard to tell in the moonlight, though my eyes had definitely adjusted to the near-darkness.

  “Drop the guns,” the brunette ordered, ignoring her companion and keeping her eyes fixed on me.

  In partial compliance, I slowly lowered the shotgun but continued to point the rifle at her. “I’m not giving up my rig. Not after all the shit I’ve been through.”

  “The shit you’ve been through?” She shook her head. “Honey, you got no idea.”

  “Let’s just say we’ve all dealt with a lot at this point,” I offered, “and leave it at that.”

  “Dat overpass didn’ collapse on its own, ya know,” the blonde said. “Doze mudderfuckers in town blew it up.”

  “The same motherfuckers who just shot at me?”

  The blonde nodded. “Dem’s da ones.”

  “Whoever they are, they’re fucking nuts. They just killed a few innocent motorists, right in front of me.”

  “Yeah, they’re not big on hospitality,” the brunette lamented.

  “But, seriously,” I asked, “why would they do that? Why blow up the bridge?”

  The reason might’ve seemed obvious to the women, but considering my supreme desire to get the hell out of Louisiana, it legitimately perplexed me that anyone would purposely destroy a viable escape route.

  “They’re trying to keep out the dead,” the black woman to my left explained. “And everyone else.” She seemed to be the oldest of the three, perhaps in her mid-fifties, but still healthy and fit.

  Terror and desperation, especially in lawless times, could lead people to do the dumbest things, but if you’d found a permanent home and refused to leave it behind, cutting yourself off from an undead world would make some measure of sense.

  It still pissed me off, though – particularly since, as with many selfish, impulsive schemes, blowing up an overpass would only make travel more difficult, not to mention more deadly, for other people. Pain-resistant zombies, on the other hand, would happily clamber over any and all blockades to reach fresh meat. Depending on the size of an approaching horde, it might require a lot of ammo to stop them from breaching any levees, walls, and fences in their path.

  Of course, the jackasses of Gonzales hadn’t simply destroyed a bridge to block out the undead. They were actively murdering fellow humans as well, which catapulted them to a whole new level of despicable evil.

  I sighed. “Well, is there a way around this mess? I have to get to my wife.”

  “So you said,” the leader replied. “But if you’re really serious about making it to Baton Rouge, you gotta head down to the river and take 75 north. They blew up the I-10 overpass, too, so that ain’t open either.”

  “River Road? Shit, at this rate, I’ll never get there.”

  As the name indicated, the route she’d mentioned hugged the serpentine Mississippi River. It only comprised two lanes, one headed in each direction alongside a grassy levee, and I had no way of discerning the potential obstacles on such a narrow, winding road. For all I knew, it was entirely clogged up with bodies, cars, zombies, or a combination of all of the above.

  While standing there like a dumbass, contemplating my next move, a voice emerged from the far left.

  “Bertha, what the hell’s going on over here?”

  I turned as a giant of a mulatto woman stomped around the front of my van, her rifle held aloft, her wide-set eyes darting between me and the brunette. Given her intimidating height and girth, I wondered why she hadn’t been one of the ones waiting for me to emerge from the passenger side of the van. By comparison, the other three women seemed much easier to overcome. One look at the mulatto, and I might’ve dropped both guns immediately.

  “You told us to spread out and keep an eye on the van,” the newcomer continued, “but no one else seems to be inside.”

  At that exact moment, Azazel unleashed a loud, pleading meow – as if offended by the no-one-else comment. Suddenly, five sets of eyes and a couple of the ladies’ weapons shifted toward the van, where my cat stood atop her carrier, leaning her forepaws against the window on the passenger side, exposing her spotted belly, and mewling at the top of her little lungs.

  The blonde chuckled. “Well, no one ’cept a friggin’ cat.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” the brunette, apparently named Bertha, asked.

  “She,” I emphasized, “misses her mama. And like me, she’s fucking tired of all the trouble we’ve run into since leaving New Orleans.”

  Following the abrupt interruption of my adorable feline, the four ladies seemed to relax a little. Perhaps having a feisty, well-fed kitty on board made me appear less villainous in their eyes.

  The three remaining ladies rounded the rear of my van, and even they wore relaxed postures, their rifles aimed at the ground.

  Unfortunately, Azazel – the reason for the widespread sense of calm – was still agitated, her furry face pressed against the barred glass, her cries muffled but still rather persistent. I could only assume she didn’t like seeing her daddy surrounded by seven armed women.

  “OK, fine,” Bertha said, finally acquiescing. “You can get back in your van and go.”

  Fuck it.

  I decided to lower the rifle and push my luck just a bit further.

  “I appreciate that, but seriously, is River Road my only option? There’s really no other way through?” I scanned the seven faces encircling me, hoping to catch a sympathetic eye and trying to ignore the feline cries behind me. “I got a text from my wife that her mom’s house is surrounded. I need to get there as soon as possible.”

  Bertha shook her head but lowered her rifle. Taking a cue from their leader, the others still aiming their weapons at me did the same.

  “The Ascension Parish Sheriff’s Office and the Gonzales Police Department decided we could all go screw ourselves,” Bertha explained. “They wanted to make a safe haven for them and their families.”

  “Our husbands tried stopping them,” the large mulatto said. “There was a shootout, and they ended up arresting them.”

  “Well, all except Bertrand,” Bertha said, shifting her gaze toward the blonde beside her.

  “He was my husband,” she lamented. “Doze bastards killed him.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Two days of this shit, and humanity’s pretty much out the fucking window.”

  Before the zombie apocalypse arrived on our balmy shores, people had always wondered why I despised most humans – and why I never had much faith we’d band together in a major crisis.

  Well, here’s your answer.

  “You said it, honey,” agreed the black woman standing beside Bertha.

  “Yeah, well,” Bertha continued, “we’re planning to go in and get our men back.”

  “An’ shoot as many of d’assholes dat took ’em as we can,” the short blonde added.

  “I’m all for justice and revenge,” I said, “but if all the roads into town are blocked, just how do you plan on getting in there? On foot?”

  “Hell with that,” Bertha scoffed. “We’ve got a plan.”

  Many of humanity’s worst-ever ideas had begun with those four simple words: We’ve got a plan. But no matter how insane the women’s scheme appeared, I had little choice but to help them.

  Might be my only way to cut through Gonzales and get back on the road to Clare.

  “OK,” I said, “I’m in.”

  All seven women eyed me cautiously. As they continued staring at me, likely wondering about my ulterior motives, Azazel released another pitiful caterwaul behind me.

  “Look, I realize none of you give a shit about me,” I said, “but I’ve helped quite a few folks since this bullshit began, and if helping you ladies will get me and Azazel to the other side of town, I’m happy to be of assistance.”

  Several of them
glanced at my crying cat.

  “Azazel?” the blonde asked. “Isn’t dat a demon’s name?”

  Leave it to the young one to know that.

  “As a matter of fact… yes. But that’s a story for another time.” I scanned the faces surrounding me. “So, what do you say? If I help you free your husbands, will you help me and my cat get out of here?”

  Bertha’s gaze shifted past my shoulder, toward my meowing kitty again. “Never liked cats much, but she’s pretty cute. I bet her mama misses her.”

  “Not as much as we miss her,” I replied.

  Bertha smiled. “We can always use an extra pair of hands.”

  “An’ an extra pair of guns,” the blonde added, nodding toward the two weapons hanging at my sides.

  Despite our friendly rapport, I wasn’t yet ready to tell the women about the small arsenal inside my van. While I didn’t suspect they’d lied about their unfairly incarcerated spouses and the impending rescue attempt, I still hadn’t ruled out the possibility of their opting to execute me and my cat and confiscate everything we possessed.

  All I knew for certain was that that wouldn’t be the last time Azazel saved my ass.

  “Great. Before we get started, it might be good to know who everyone is. I’m Joe. Joe Daniels.”

  Following a speedy round of introductions, I decided to tackle the most important order of business.

  “So, uh, what’s the plan?”

  “We’re takin’ a boat ride,” Bertha explained.

  Um, OK. Didn’t expect that.

  “A boat ride?” My eyes squinted in confusion. “But I can’t leave my van behind.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ally, the young blonde, said. “Ya won’t have to.”

  Didn’t expect that either.

  I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question, but before I could get a word out, Ally winked at me. For a recent widow, she sure was a spitfire. Perhaps rage, vengeance, and self-preservation had superseded sadness, at least for the time being.

  Fight now. Cry later, I guess.

  “A couple of us can ride wit’ you an’ Azazel,” she said, “an’ we’ll explain da plan on da way.”

  As usual, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. Normally, I would’ve insisted on discussing the details of the current crazy-ass plan before agreeing to allow strangers into my precious home-on-wheels, but given the ladies’ dire circumstances and my own sense of urgency, I didn’t think I had much of a choice.

  Unfortunately, those five little words – I didn’t have a choice – had also preceded many of humanity’s worst-ever ideas, but what could I do? My wife was depending on me to reach Baton Rouge, and time was not on our side.

  Chapter

  3

  “Excuse me, not to shit on anyone’s riff here, but let me see if I grasp this concept, OK?” – CJ, Dawn of the Dead (2004)

  “I’m sorry,” I asked, “but how again are we supposed to get into town?”

  Luckily, Bertha, the group’s de facto leader, had decided to brief me prior to departing from the darkened, dead-end street. Still, while I appreciated knowing the general plan before hitting the road, I felt just as skeptical as I’d been upon her initial mention of an unexpected boat ride.

  She’d already outlined the rescue effort, and frankly, it had seemed just as batshit-crazy as one of my typical schemes. On any other day, I likely wouldn’t have hesitated, but after all the crap I’d endured since waking up in my courtyard, I didn’t possess the normal stamina or patience required to deal with another misguided, death-defying stunt.

  Humoring me, Bertha once again summarized the plan, which apparently entailed riding a barge along a nearby river into the northeastern part of Gonzales. According to her, not only would the vessel be able to carry me, Azazel, and my seven new friends; it could also bear the weight of my heavy-ass van and one of the two loaded SUVs, enabling us to drive onto shore immediately after docking.

  For me, the main sticking point was that I had trouble believing their boat would be sturdy enough to lug my sizable vehicle down even a slow-moving waterway without capsizing.

  “Gretchen’s husband uses it to deliver heavy construction supplies all along the bayous,” Bertha said. “Trust me, it can handle both vehicles.”

  Trust.

  Once again, that pesky word had reared its questionable head.

  As if sensing my continued reluctance, Gretchen smiled reassuringly. At nearly sixty, she was the second oldest member of the rescue troop. Also the roundest, she appeared sturdy enough to commandeer my van if she so desired – with or without a loaded rifle in her hand. Luckily, despite her obvious heft and feistiness, she also seemed to be the kindest of all the ladies present.

  “Before you showed up, we were gonna take both SUVs anyway,” she explained patiently. “Now, we’ll just transfer what we need into one, and you can follow us down to the barge. It’s docked along the New River, outside town. To reach it, we’re gonna have to double-back a ways. But don’t worry, we scouted the route earlier today. Unless it’s chock-full of those nasty undead things, it’s the best option we got.”

  Still skeptical, I decided to pose the obvious question. “I’m sure you’ve all thought of this, but… what about taking the back roads into town?”

  Gigi, the fiftysomething black woman, shook her head. “Course we’d rather that, but no can do.”

  According to Bertha, Gonzales had long been home to an engineering division of the Louisiana Army National Guard, and as soon as the zombie infection had entered their region, the Ascension Parish sheriff and Gonzales police chief had ordered some of those same engineers to blow up the overpasses and exit ramps leading into town. They’d also instructed them to build barricades across all the other routes offering access to the community. Additionally, the two head cops and their cronies had established round-the-clock patrols and sniper posts to keep out the unwanted.

  And by unwanted, they naturally meant the zombies and everyone else. As I’d unhappily witnessed firsthand.

  All the effort required to fortify such a sizable place would’ve seemed impressive if it hadn’t been so diabolical.

  “But why did they arrest your husbands?”

  Bertha sighed. “Our men went in to stop them from closing off the town to those of us who live out here, on the outskirts.”

  “Dey obviously didn’ like dat,” Ally lamented. “Decided to make an example of my Bert.”

  “What they’re doin’ is wrong,” Gretchen added, squeezing her young friend’s hand. “We got as much right to the town as any of them.”

  “No offense,” I ventured, gazing at Ally’s pinched face, “but why didn’t they just shoot all of your husbands?”

  A middle-aged, black-and-gray-haired woman named Ellen smiled. “Cuz, my boy done planted explosives aroun’ town an’ promised to level da place if dey killed anyone else.”

  My eyes squinted in confusion.

  “Ellen’s son was one of the National Guard engineers,” Bertha elaborated. “He planted the explosives so they couldn’t find them easily, and he’s still hiding somewhere in town.”

  “Problem is,” Ellen continued, “come daylight, dey’re gonna hunt down my boy or maybe jus’ find an’ disarm d’explosives.”

  “Dat’s why we goin’ now,” Tonya, a grizzled old redhead, said. “Before dey can undo what Tom done.”

  Sally, the tall, wide-shouldered mulatto who’d interrupted our initial standoff, had yet to toss her two cents into the mix. The oldest and most intimidating member of the group, she’d spent the discussion standing guard, keeping an eye on our dimly lit surroundings. Good thing, too, as she was the first one to spot movement in the darkness.

  “Heads up, ladies. We got company.”

  Following her gaze toward Airline Highway, I noted the stumbling silhouette that had caught Sally’s impressively sharp eye. One zombie wasn’t an issue for eight armed humans, but unfortunately, the creature had led others toward the dead-end street.
With my compromised ears (thanks to a long-ago medical debacle), I discerned the groaning ruckus only a few seconds before several other zombies rounded the corner closest to the overpass, trailed by a large herd that seemed to have no end in sight.

  “Holy shit!” Ally and I yelled simultaneously.

  Whether the sound of our muffled discussion or the smell of fresh meat had lured the massive horde of undead from the highway didn’t matter. Either way, our little powwow was over, and unfortunately, the ladies and I had run out of time to consolidate their essentials. With little hesitation, five of the women darted toward the nearest SUV while Bertha, Ally, and I bolted toward my van.

  Given the abbreviated length of the street, the closest zombies had almost reached the three of us. The only reason we managed to make it to safety was that, while I slid open the door and clambered inside, Bertha and Ally remained on the asphalt, firing several rounds into the heads of the leading undead.

  As I set down my weapons and guided a freaked-out but still reluctant Azazel into her carrier, I monitored the action in my side-view mirror. Amid an explosion of undead brain matter, several bodies tumbled to the ground, creating an impromptu speed bump for the zombies behind them and giving the two women just enough time to scramble into my van and secure the door.

  The moment Ally engaged the lock, the inevitable pounding and shaking commenced. The first wave of hungry, moaning zombies quickly surrounded the van, relentlessly beating and pushing the vehicle in a determined effort to reach the tempting flesh inside. While the van continued to rock and quake, Bertha and Ally scurried toward the sofa, Azazel cried inside her carrier, and I buckled myself into the driver’s seat.

  Just as I started the engine, a decomposing teenaged boy pressed his face against the protective bars gracing the window on my left. He pushed so hard that disgusting pus and black goo squirted from both of his cheeks, adding to the diseased foulness already obscuring my view.