Cajun Zombie Chronicles: (Book 3): The Kingdom Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  Chet was back again looking through the narrow opening between the curtain and the door. He moved quickly to the next room, a parlor. He crept around to the side of a larger window. There was a knick-knack table full of small animal figurines between him and the window. One wrong move and there would be a cascade of ceramics tumbling to the floor. He edged around the table without so much as wobble.

  Chet stood by the window for what seemed like an hour. Justin and Isherwood blinked when he finally turned back to them. Chet was already back in the foyer by the time they re-opened their eyes. He put his hands on their shoulders. “They’re here,” he whispered. Then, with a small push, he said, “Follow me.”

  He led them to a stairway at the back of the house. They’d just passed a perfectly good stairway by the front door, Justin thought to himself. He assumed Chet was taking them this way to muffle, if not avoid, the symphony of creaking steps. Justin wasn’t sure if we wanted to be going up in this house while a swarm surrounded it, but he acquiesced for now. Better than this movie ending in the basement, he thought to himself darkly, remembering how the people had trapped themselves in the original Night of the Living Dead. His thoughts began to wander from there. Or, was that the remake? He asked himself.

  There was a small splash of light at the top of the stairs. There was a figure waiting for them in the shadows. Isherwood and Justin saw that he was another scruffy-bearded man, as they passed him. He watched the pair ominously as they passed by. Beyond the top of the stairs, the space quickly broadened into another parlor. The parlor sat in the middle of the house as sort of a meeting place and lounge between several bedrooms. They were few windows, and none that looked out the front of the house. The parlor was well situated after all, Justin observed, to weather the passing swarm.

  Other than the guard at the top of the stairs, the rest of the group was resting and repacking their backs along the floors and pair of couches at the center of the room. They exchanged furtive glances with the newcomers. Between the two couches, there was a pair of armchairs. In one of these, the old woman was sitting. Her wheelchair was leaning against the wall behind her.

  Justin started as he suddenly noticed movement above the old woman’s chair. He looked up to see, he quickly realized, his own reflection staring back at him. There was a tall mirror hanging on the wall, an old one by the look of it. The reflection had large sections of discoloration. He wondered for a moment at his changed appearance. He looked just like Chet and the other scruffy-bearded man. If they were all put in a line-up, he would be hard-pressed to pick out himself. He smiled briefly, despite himself, as he marveled at the weight he had lost. “Ain’t no diet like a zombie apocalypse diet,” he mumbled to himself.

  “What’s that?” Isherwood whispered beside him. Justin just shook his head when Isherwood turned to him for a response. He was glad no one could see him blushing in the dark room.

  Chet led them to the old woman. “Miss Abby,” he said. The others slowly gathered at and around the two couches. There was a single, thick candle burning on a low oval coffee table which stood between the couches and armchairs at the very center of the parlor. “These two men,” Chet said, motioning to Isherwood and Justin. “These are, well, actually. I never got their names.” Chet motioned for the men to come over and introduce themselves to the old woman. Another one of the men, not the one from the top of the stairway, stiffened as they approached the old woman, Isherwood noticed even in the dark. I bet he’s the one who carried her up the stairs. Both he and the old woman were black, Isherwood also noticed. Her grandson, maybe? The old woman’s face was illuminated in the flickering candlelight. Her face was creased with what seemed like a thousand wrinkles. Maybe great-grandson, Isherwood corrected himself.

  “Isherwood,” he said, introducing himself. He was leaning down to the old woman, as if bowing. She raised her hand to him at a slow, measured pace. He took her slender, well-weathered hand into both of his own. Her grip, Isherwood quickly noticed, was anything but feeble, betraying her overall appearance. Her eyes, deep set from age, glittered black like the carapaces of two searching beetles. They twinkled at the newcomers in the candlelight.

  Justin introduced himself in a similar manner, and the wrinkles began gathering together at the center of her forehead, like curtains being slowly bunched together. “But where is the other one?” She whispered. “The priest? He was here. I know he was.”

  Chet answered before the others could respond. “Yes, Miss Abby,” he said, as her eyes and head slowly moved in his direction. “He’s still outside. They didn’t know if we could be trusted, you see?” Isherwood felt suddenly sheepish at the idea. He realized dimly that, in just the passing moments, he can come to trust this group entirely. There was a certain, undeniable magnetism to the old woman, he thought to himself.

  “He’ll be alright,” Isherwood found himself trying to reassure the old woman and the others. “He’s very …”

  “Yes,” the old woman interrupted. “He’ll be jus’ fine.” Her head slowly sank back to her chest and her eyes returned to the candlelight. “And he will visit us in the morning.”

  As they watched, waiting for further explanation, the old woman’s eyes slowly closed like those of the ancient sphinx, and she was asleep.

  Isherwood and Justin looked around in confusion, feeling suddenly odd. They were still leaning in to listen to the old woman. Even now, just moments later, her ancient lips begin to puff rhythmically with the soft growls of snoring. They looked around in confusion, but the others seemed to be used to interactions like this. Chet was looking at them with a little grin curling the corner of his mouth.

  They were soon, all of them, asleep, as if somehow all their sleep cycles were linked to the old woman’s. This, despite the growing sound of hundreds of feet shuffling past the house.

  CHAPTER TWO: MORNING

  There was a screw-top canister with a rubber seal in the kitchen filled with Morning Treat coffee. The group of eight along with Isherwood and Justin boiled water on the stove – the house likely had its own propane tank and some unknown portion of it remained filled – and poured it by hand through a Mr. Coffee electric-powered coffee pot.

  Isherwood stood against the frame of the back door, looking out through the glass and the screen beyond. The rising cloud of steam from a raised coffee mug parted as it rose past his face. There was a small of pile of stacked corpses, the former residents of Smithfield that had been cleared out by the advance team. He looked from the pile to the pitted back lawn and its trampled grass.

  “That swarm is headed right for our home,” he announced to the rest of the crowded kitchen. There was a thick table at the center of the kitchen, which looked to be attached to the home and showed signs of wear to match. Miss Abby had been carried downstairs by the other man that Isherwood believed to be her grandson.

  “What are you suggesting? We can’t take them on ourselves,” Chet answered him.

  “They’d run right over us. Are you … you can’t be serious?” A youngish woman asked. She was fair-skinned with a handful of freckles and a length of red hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  Isherwood put a hand up in protest. “Look, all I said was they’re headed straight for my home, you know, my wife and kids.” He regretted mentioning his family almost immediately. It wasn’t just that he had given away his weak point to these people, whom, except for Miss Abbey, he still wasn’t sure about. It was the dark clouds that seemed to pass over their faces when he made mention of his still living family.

  “We’ve taken on larger before and with just the three of us,” Justin added distractedly, as he rummaged through the various cabinets. He eventually popped up with an old box of Frosted Flakes, digging in eagerly. “We had more ammo back then, though.”

  “Plus, we’ve got Livonia to think about,” Isherwood added. “That’s one of our outposts,” he added, explaining to the others. “We got a distress call from them before we left to intercept y’all. We were hoping,”
he added sheepishly, “that you might join us in helping them out.”

  “Say what?” said the man, who Isherwood thought might be Miss Abby’s grandson.

  “Yeah, buddy,” said an older man with a black bandanna hanging loosely around his neck. He seemed to be sweating all the time. Isherwood guessed this had been one of the advance team that had scouted the house. “We ain’t got much juice left before we flat-out collapse.”

  “Understood,” Isherwood answered. “We do have alternatives,” he said delicately.

  “Alternatives?” The redhead repeated indignantly, balling her hands into fists.

  “Hush, hush, husshh,” Miss Abby breathed gently from the head of the table. “The priest already has all this worked out for us. He’ll be stopping by any minute now.”

  Isherwood wrinkled his brow and turned his head instinctively to look out onto the back lawn, as if expecting to see Padre walking up. When he looked back to the kitchen, he felt that the tension had actually cleared. Justin was trying to give him a look, but he ignored him. It didn’t matter. He knew exactly what Justin was thinking. The group of eight actually calmed down after listening to Miss Abby. It had been a strange sight, though. They had visibly relaxed.

  “Dude,” Justin said, sidling up to Isherwood and refusing to take his hint. “It’s like she’s got them bewitched or something,” he whispered.

  Isherwood just barely shook his head, hoping Justin would get the hint. He couldn’t talk about it. Not right now. Miss Abby was actually looking at him. He didn’t know if she could actually see him on the opposite side of the kitchen, but he was beginning to think she had something that made up for old age and poor eyesight.

  ****

  It was only a couple minutes when they heard a soft tapping. In hindsight, Miss Abby’s words were eerily prophetic.

  It was Padre. He had just walked straight up to the front door. It was Chet who first heard him knocking. He moved suddenly to the front door. The others noticed his absence almost immediately. They all fell into step behind Chet, except the old woman and her grandson. The others took up positions behind and to either side of Chet even before he reached the front door. Isherwood and Justin sort of ambled towards the others in curiosity. Looking around, Isherwood saw they were all suddenly armed. He hadn’t noticed their weapons at the table, and all of a sudden they were locked and loaded. I sure hope these guys are good guys, he thought to himself, ‘cause we need’em.

  As if reading his thoughts, Justin turned to Isherwood and whispered, “Scary.” His eyes widened in admiration.

  Miss Abby gave the younger black man’s arm a gentle squeeze. He turned to her, and she nodded to him. A moment later, Isherwood was surprised to see the wheelchair had been rolled to a spot in the front parlor directly behind him. He saw the old woman leaning in her chair to get a good look at the front door. He smiled at her, though she didn’t notice, because she looked almost young again, like a school girl giddy with anticipation. Looking around, Isherwood could feel the house filling with anticipation. The redhead was again balling her free hand into a little first.

  When Chet opened the door, the man standing at the door seemed almost comical compared to the anticipation that was awaiting him. It was Padre, exactly on cue. His cassock had been muddied by a night on the run, but otherwise he looked normal. He adjusted his glasses and nodded at them silently. As typical, he was a man of few words. He nevertheless struck an imposing figure with the rifles crossed against his back and the .44s holstered on either side. One of the pistols was covered in mud, and had for most of the night been given up for lost. All of it, except for the knives he kept inside the cassock, had been useless during the night.

  “Come on in. Miss Abby’s been expecting you,” Chet finally said after taking a moment to scan the front lawn and the road beyond.

  Padre looked over to Isherwood before moving. Isherwood nodded and wrinkled his brow a bit, as if to say, ‘oh, yeah, definitely, nothing to worry about here.’

  Padre nodded back and silently followed Chet’s gesture of welcome into the foyer of the large house. “Well,” Padre said, standing in their midst. Everybody was just staring at him. “How about some coffee?”

  “Excellent plan,” Isherwood said with a sly grin.

  *****

  “Wait, so you’re Holly and you’re Gill?” Padre was pointing at the two twenty-something women in the ‘Group of Eight,’ or so Isherwood had taken to calling them, what was left of them. They were doing a round of introductions at Padre’s request, something Isherwood and Justin regretted not doing sooner.

  “Yeah, I’m Gill, Karen Gill, actually,” said the redhead, who was acting much less fiery now that Padre had come. “It’s sort of a reference to a book,” Gill was explaining and dismissing with a wave of her hand. “Nevermind.”

  “I get it,” Isherwood smiled. “Anne of Green Gables, right? But it’s ironic because you’re red-headed, but called ‘Gill’ like Gilbert, but not ‘Anne’.”

  “Yeah, something like that.” The girl smiled, brushing loose strands of her hair back behind her ear. Isherwood couldn’t tell if she was impressed or uncomfortable, so he quickly backed off.

  “That’s gonna be confusing,” Justin said, returning to the introductions. “Because I’d expect Holly to have the red hair.” After noticing a few confused expressions, he added with a shrug, “you know, like ‘holly’ berries?”

  “It’s Holland, actually.” The somewhat younger girl corrected, pursing her lips. She wore oversized clear plastic glasses that reminded Isherwood of his mom’s glasses growing up in the Eighties. She was somewhat big in the hips and wore jeans that seemed to accentuate, rather than diminish, this. “But, yeah, Holly is cool,” she said dismissively, while tightening her grip on her cup of coffee and staring into its depths.

  “And you’re Miss Abby,” Padre said changing the subject and pointing to the old woman.

  “Wait,” Chet interrupted. “How’d you know that? Did she say her name – did anybody?”

  Miss Abby brushed him off with a wave. “Nevermind about that, dear. Mor’un one way to skin a cat.” She and Padre exchanged conspiratorial glances. “I ‘spect you’re wondering why we’ve come all this way to see you and the other priest.” Padre nodded in silent answer. “Because,” the old woman said with severity. Her bottom teeth would’ve jutted out from beyond her bottom lip, if she still had any bottom teeth. “He’s got somethin’ that belongs to me. That’s why.”

  “Something that belongs to you?” The younger black man asked. “We’ve come all this way for a thing?”

  “And this young handsome thing is Hillman,” Miss Abby continued, ignoring him while tapping the arm of the man Isherwood had assumed was her grandson. “My great-great-grandson, or something like that. He and I are all that’s left of a once large family.” Hillman nodded and gave his grandmother a meaningful look.

  “Hill, actually. I just go by ‘Hill.’ Hillman is – was – my dad.” His smile faltered as he said it. As he corrected himself, a dark cloud swept across his face. “And that guy over there,” Hill said with a grin. “Calls himself ‘Lee Majors.’”

  “Like the ‘Bionic Man’?” Isherwood said smiled suspiciously.

  “‘Six Million Dollar’,” Lee corrected in a somewhat bored and officious tone. “Actually,” he continued in sort of a droning, effeminate way, “It’s Lee Mayers, but it’s the Apocalypse and I was like ‘what the hell?’ People have been pointing out the similarity my whole dang life anyway. I’ll file the appropriate paperwork as soon as the opportunity arises, how’s that sound?” He laughed, hissing through his nose.

  “And the guy at the end,” Hill said, having fully regained his joking manner, “who looks nothing at all like a terrorist, is Jarrah.”

  There was an Arabic-looking man standing at the end of the table closest to where Isherwood was leaning against the kitchen counter. Isherwood was surprised to see the man. He figured that he must have just come in. He al
so noticed that the older man with the black bandanna was now gone. Isherwood guessed that the bandanna man had just relieved Jarrah of guard duty.

  Jarrah laughed an easy laugh at Hill’s banter. Isherwood figured it must be an ongoing joke between the two men. “Yes, and waiter?” Jarrah shot back at Hill with an effete smirk. “I’ll take today’s special along with a glass of whatever’s open, sound good?”

  “Sure thing,” Hill said smiling and shaking his head. “Only today’s special is nothin’ with a side of kiss my …”

  “That’s enough, dear,” Miss Abby said, interrupting her great-great grandson just in time. Nevertheless, the whole kitchen filled with hushed laughter. “It’s a good group we have here,” the old woman continued as the laughter died down. “If a little too rowdy for my tastes.”

  “What about the man with the black bandanna?” Isherwood asked.

  “Old, bald, and ugly, you mean?” Lee Majors asked. “That’s Hoskins. ‘Skins’ for short.”

  “Well,” Lee continued after a pause. “Miss Abby says you’ve got the plan, Father.” Isherwood could tell it was not second nature for Lee to speak in respectful tones about anyone – he looked as though there was something bitter in his mouth – but he managed it for the old woman and the priest.

  Padre nodded slowly and a short smile briefly emerged from his beard, as he peered down into his coffee mug. He then pushed the mug away and folded his hands in front of him, as he thought over what he was about to say. He almost let the moment slip away from him with an overlong pause. Lee was beginning to move his head as though he were about to speak, when Padre finally spoke up.

  “The swarm passed us by and is still heading north to St. Maryville, as you all might’ve guessed. Sort of a disaster about to happen. Another swarm may be assailing Livonia, too. One choice is to go after this swarm first, a divide and conquer approach. Another would be to lead this one to Livonia so we could take care of both swarms at the same time and from behind cover. But,” Padre paused for a second to adjust his glasses on his nose. “There may be another option. A better option.”