Zombie Chaos (Book 3): Terror on the Bayou

by Martone, D. L.

  “Jesus, where did all these bastards come from?” I asked, temporarily blinding some of them with my headlights. “I only saw a few of them on the highway, and those were headed toward the overpass!”

  As I put the van in gear and started rolling forward, hoping to turn around in one of the empty driveways, I heard Bertha’s response from behind me.

  “Several large groups been wandering around the town’s perimeter. On our last scouting mission, me and Gretchen spotted one that must’ve numbered in the thousands. Figured they were coming from Baton Rouge.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, reversing out of the driveway and plowing into several zombies.

  Ally chuckled mirthlessly. “Still sure ya wanna head up dere?”

  “I’ve got no choice,” I replied. “My wife needs me. And I can’t let her down… no matter how many undead fuckers get in my way.”

  I punctuated my point by squishing a trio of zombies in front of the van.

  “In Gonzales, ain’t jus’ da zombies ya gotta worry about,” Ally bitterly replied. “Dey’re jus’ hungry animals, operatin’ on instinct. Some of da humans here are far worse.”

  I glanced in my rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry about your husband, Ally. But sadly, it’s the same everywhere. The zombies are no picnic, and a herd of ’em’ll devour you in a heartbeat, but I’d rather deal with them than some of the greedy, murderous sacks of human shit that’ll do anything to survive.”

  “True dat,” Bertha muttered.

  Ally, for once, remained quiet, no doubt reflecting on her recently murdered mate – and the unfortunate state of the world.

  While slowly navigating the van through the writhing sea of zombies encircling us, I silently prayed (to no one in particular) that my fortified vehicle could endure the latest hurdle – and that Clare would never feel a widow’s pain, at least not anytime soon. I also hoped that my mother-in-law’s house could withstand its own horde of undead trespassers – if only long enough for me to liberate my wife.

  Cuz there was no fucking way I’d want to survive a zombie apocalypse without her.

  Glancing at the worried feline eyes fixed on my face, I knew Azazel agreed with me.

  Chapter

  4

  “You know, with the exception of the seat spring piercing my ass, this ride’s excellent.” – Fuller Thomas, Joy Ride (2001)

  With some measure of difficulty, I continued to follow the overburdened SUV toward Airline Highway. Given the vehicle’s ordinary tires, exposed windows, and sagging frame, it likely would’ve made more sense for my fortified van to lead the way through the mass of moaning zombies, but unfortunately, I had no idea how to reach our destination. Bertha and Ally probably could’ve guided me to the river, but it was too late to rearrange our two-member caravan. I just hoped the driver ahead of me had the skill and moxie to plow through the sizable horde.

  Sizable horde, ha!

  As we crossed the highway and turned onto the southbound lanes, I realized Bertha was right. The mere handful of zombies headed toward the busted overpass only a half-hour before had morphed into thousands of creatures, like some demonic, unstoppable swarm from another dimension.

  Though some of the zombies meandered along the edges of the highway, most of the creatures around us seemed to move with distinct purpose – apparently eager to reach the living flesh inside the two meals-on-wheels foolishly plodding down the road. As they pelted themselves into the sides of both vehicles, denting metal and weakening glass, I realized the only advantage sparing us from permanently crippling damage was the zombies’ lack of space to reach their top speed. There were just too damn many of them, packed too tightly to use velocity against us. Like a murderous mosh pit at the biggest undead concert on the planet.

  And who’ll headline the concert? The Grateful Dead? The Stones? At least one of those guys has to still be alive, preserved by all the dope he took seventy years ago.

  Really, Joe? Perfect time for such random thoughts.

  Despite the zombies’ weaknesses, the sheer density of the massive horde unnerved both me and my human passengers, making our journey down US-61 much slower than any of us would’ve preferred.

  Fifteen minutes later, we finally neared the southernmost border of the herd. Roughly fifty of the speedier creatures attempted to pursue us down the highway, but even they gave up the effort once we accelerated beyond thirty miles an hour.

  After passing through a few deserted neighborhoods, we eventually ended up on a bumpy dirt road. By the time we reached the western bank of the New River, we hadn’t spotted a zombie, or any living organism, in quite a while.

  Fixed on the taillights ahead and braking accordingly, I heard someone’s gentle footsteps behind me. Turning my head, I noted Bertha standing between the two front seats and gazing through the windshield.

  “There it is,” she said, gesturing with her chin.

  Just as I faced the road again, my headlights illuminated a pile of junk bobbing beside the shore. Glancing up and down the moonlit river, I acknowledged a strange truth: It appeared to be the only vessel in the vicinity.

  Glancing over my right shoulder, I noticed Bertha looking at me, a wry smile on her face.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “I doubt it,” I grumbled.

  Her smile widened. She was enjoying my unsettling revelation way too much for comfort.

  “I suppose you want me to drive my rig onto…” I squinted through the windshield again. “What is that? A handful of pontoon boats squished together?”

  “Well, at least the most important parts of a few repurposed boats,” she replied. “The pontoons themselves.”

  Seriously, it looked as though Gretchen’s resourceful (yet clearly unhinged) husband had welded together at least nine pontoon boats, then bolted a huge, multi-piece platform across the floating mass, installed a waist-high railing around the perimeter and a steering console near the stern, and attached four marine motors at the rear, spawning a half-assed barge.

  An only-in-Cajun-Country kind of creation.

  Though the makeshift boat impressed the inventive, entrepreneurial side of me – who’d once made a meager living selling video camera stabilizers crafted from PVC piping and other inexpensive hardware – the practical, paternal half of my nature protested vehemently inside my conflicted brain. I had a wife and a furbaby to consider, after all.

  “I’m telling you,” Bertha insisted, “if you pull onto the barge and stay at the center, it’ll easily hold your van and the SUV.”

  While the group’s earnest leader tried to reassure me and dispel my reasonable concerns, the two sturdiest women in the band, Gretchen and Sally, pulled out a wide, metallic ramp from the port side of the barge and temporarily locked it in place on the shore. I assumed it would not only help to stabilize the boat along the river’s edge but also allow our two vehicles to roll safely onto the platform.

  To say I harbored doubts about the ladies’ plan would be a ridiculous understatement. Even while witnessing Gigi expertly guide the SUV onto the barge and Ellen and Tonya clamp down its four wheels, I prepared for the worst. How deep was the New River, and how likely would I be able to right my precious van if she tumbled into the water, as predicted?

  With a resigned sigh, I realized I once again had little choice. “Alright. Here goes nothing.”

  Having decided to reverse onto the barge, I pivoted the van and backed toward the river’s edge. Tricky as the maneuver seemed, it would enable me to face the correct shore, which would likely make it easier and faster to disembark once we reached the landing site. A definite advantage, especially if we encountered an immediate ambush. Not that I preferred dealing with bullets head-on, but trying to evade trouble while driving backwards might’ve proven to be a bit more challenging. At least for me.

  Of course, such a plan would only work if we didn’t sink along the way.

  And the fucking jury’s still out on that one.

  With
Bertha and Ally serving as lookouts via the side and rear windows, I slowly reversed my van up the slight incline of the ramp. As my back tires rolled onto the barge, I felt the vessel rocking beneath me. The port side tilted toward the river’s surface, and water lapped across the linked platforms. Before I could panic, though, my van reached the middle of the vessel, the pontoons stabilized, and the water drained away.

  Immediately, I set the parking brake and shut off the engine.

  Whatever good that’ll do.

  Meanwhile, two unseen women (likely Ellen and Tonya) clamped my wheels to the deck, and I watched as Gretchen and Sally retracted the ramp, slid and secured the railing in place, and pushed the barge away from the shore. Then, Gretchen took her position at the helm, the other four SUV passengers readied their weapons, and our voyage was soon underway.

  The barge rocked and swayed as it traversed the New River. Bertha and Ally stood behind me, gripping their rifles and monitoring the western shore.

  “We’re gonna head outside,” Bertha said, edging toward the passenger door. “It’ll help to have all hands on deck. Just in case anyone spots us.”

  As Bertha slid open the door and stepped onto the deck, Ally turned toward me.

  “Ya comin’?”

  Although I could technically swim, I’d never been as comfortable in the water as my wife. Clare’s father had given her swimming lessons as a toddler, and during our marriage, she’d embraced all manner of water sports, from swimming in freshwater lakes to snorkeling in the Florida Keys – some of the only activities she’d done on her own. While she’d often expressed a desire to pursue such diversions together, she’d tried hard not to pressure me, knowing that my aquaphobia stretched back to a traumatic childhood experience during a swimming class gone wrong.

  While I’d always loved boating and fishing with Clare, I’d rarely ventured into water deep enough to overwhelm me. Considering the precarious nature of Gretchen’s barge, I didn’t have much incentive to budge from the driver’s seat of my fortified van – no matter how waterproof she, uh, wasn’t.

  Unwilling to explain all my shortcomings to Ally, I merely shook my head. “Nope. I’m good here. I’d feel weird leaving my cat behind, just in case something happened.”

  I felt guilty using Azazel as an excuse, but to be fair, she feared open water almost as much as I did.

  “But if you need me,” I added, “just holler.”

  With an agreeable nod, Ally joined her friend outside.

  Through my barred windows, I watched as Gretchen steered the craft and her six companions milled around the deck, keeping an observant eye on both shores.

  Still nervous about the fate of my vehicle, especially if the barge capsized, I suddenly found myself chuckling. Glancing at Azazel, I noticed her quizzical eyes fixed on my face. No doubt my nervous laughter amid such a tense, dangerous situation made her doubt her daddy’s sanity, but I couldn’t help myself.

  In a matter of minutes, my zombie-proof van had become a boat. If, at the start of such a fucked-up day, anyone had told me I’d end up floating down a river toward a barricaded town en route to the state capital, I would’ve considered that fool more than just a smidgen insane.

  But there we were, drifting toward potential doom. As usual, I could only hope Azazel and I would survive our latest hurdle – leaving enough time to spare Clare from succumbing to her own death-defying challenge at my mother-in-law’s house.

  Chapter

  5

  “Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!” – Neville Flynn, Snakes on a Plane (2006)

  As the minutes passed, a tense quiet settled upon the barge. From inside my van, I could hear the muffled engines at the stern and the lapping current against the pontoons, but everything and everyone else had fallen silent. Even Azazel remained mum in her carrier.

  Gretchen, meanwhile, continued steering the barge expertly down the winding river. She hadn’t turned on any of the navigation lights – you know, the handy things that typically allowed an operator to evade obstacles along a dimly lit route. Or enabled others to spot the vessel in the darkness and prevent an unnecessary collision.

  No big deal.

  Given the inescapable fact that a motorized barge made its share of noise cutting through the water – especially in an eerie, post-apocalyptic world like ours – she’d no doubt figured the red, green, and white lights would only enhance our chances of attracting the undead or, worse, gun-toting assholes. Fortunately, the moon offered enough illumination for our fearless pilot to navigate the many twists and turns along the tree-lined waterway – and avoid getting hung up on either shore.

  Of course, Gretchen wasn’t the only impressive member of the estrogen army I’d befriended. Though vastly differing in age and size, all seven of the women possessed a toughness that would serve them well during the zombie apocalypse. In addition to our skilled helmswoman, Sally and Bertha seemed to be the most formidable. Predictably, they’d positioned themselves on opposite sides of the barge, each scrutinizing her designated shore for any signs of trouble.

  Earlier introduced to me as sisters, Ellen and Tonya might’ve shared little physical resemblance, but they definitely had the same feisty, stalwart personality – evident as they stood side by side near the bow, their rifles at the ready. Ally, whose husband had been murdered by a couple of gutless cops, kept an eye on the stern, while Gigi, the black woman in her mid-fifties, paced in circles around the two centralized vehicles, wearing a fierce, determined expression that would’ve made anyone question their life choices – and packing more handguns than I’d ever seen a single person carry, even in over-the-top action movies.

  While gazing through my grimy windows, observing the women at their varied posts, I inevitably felt my cheeks burning with shame. How could I remain in my fortified van while seven armed ladies stood or paced out in the open, jeopardizing their lives with every tree, shed, or other potential hiding place we motored past? The sheriff and police chief, deputies and officers, and National Guardsmen who had commandeered the town of Gonzales might’ve been assholes, but they weren’t necessarily stupid. They’d likely considered the possibility of someone breaching the town via water and perhaps even placed sentries and snipers along the New River, both north and south of the community itself.

  As usual, the perils facing me were innumerable, but my hunger, fatigue, and varied aches and pains didn’t excuse me from doing my part.

  While I contemplated the possible dangers and my questionable manhood, a chirp sounded from beside me. Turning, I spotted Azazel staring at my face. Figuring she had a desire to eat, drink, or use her litter box, I unlatched the gate and set her free.

  Only… she didn’t budge.

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  No matter our destination or the length of our journey, Azazel had never once failed to emerge from her carrier when given the opportunity.

  “What’s up, girl?”

  Tentatively, she edged toward the opening and poked her head outside. With her wide, green eyes still fixed on mine, she chirped once more.

  Although Clare and I had treasured our furbaby for the seven years she’d been our ward, neither of us purported to understand her feline language.

  Shit, we aren’t that crazy. Close but not quite.

  Still, if my wife had been with us, she surely would’ve agreed with me: In no uncertain terms, Azazel was telling me to man up.

  So, despite my lifelong discomfort with open water – and, well, drowning to death – I washed down a couple aspirin with some diet soda, unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbed the Mossberg, and quietly slid open the driver’s-side door. As I stepped onto the deck of the barge and shut the door of my van, I glanced through the barred window and noticed Azazel leaping onto the dashboard, as if assuming her sentinel stance. I only hoped she wouldn’t have a front-row seat to her daddy’s demise.

  Turning away, I surveyed my armed cohorts stationed a
round the barge. Despite a few nods and smiles, none of the women took any pains to acknowledge my presence. They were too busy keeping watch for potential enemies.

  All, that is, except for Gigi, one of the more sarcastic members of the crew. Slowing her gait as she passed my truck, she offered a wry smile. “Nice of you to join us.”

  Too much to hope that no one noted my absence on deck.

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t let you ladies have all the fun.”

  Gigi merely scoffed and continued her patrol.

  Now that I’d emerged from the security of my home-on-wheels, I wasn’t sure what to do. Bertha, Gretchen, and the other women seemed to have the situation under control, though an extra pair of armed hands couldn’t hurt.

  Still, given the flimsy, waist-high railing that bordered the makeshift barge, I was reluctant to join any of the ladies along the perimeter. Instead, I stayed near the centralized vehicles, trying to balance my weight on the gently rocking vessel and, if possible, grow a pair of sea legs.

  Gazing at the moonlit shore along the port side, I spotted several charred mounds of debris that made my empty stomach somersault with disgust.

  “Those aren’t what I think they are?”

  Gretchen sighed from her position at the helm, which lay to my immediate left. “Well, if you think they’re piles of burned bodies, you’d sadly be right.”

  The nauseating scents of scorched flesh and undead putrescence assailing my nostrils had already answered my question, but I still had trouble swallowing the real-life horror show. Even after all the horrible shit I’d witnessed.