Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

by Scioneaux, Mark C.

Jay walked in the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Juice, canned soft drinks, both diet and regular, and Budweiser.”

  “You had me at beer.”

  “Beer? It’s a little early for that, right, Sheriff?”

  “I’ve had a really bad, fucking day.”

  Jay passed a can of Bud to Mason and fixed a glass of ice water for himself. “I’m going to the bathroom and clean up. Make yourself at home.” He then walked down the hall to the bathroom.

  The Bud opened and sprayed Mason with a light, cold mist. He turned the bottom up and chugged down three quarters of the contents. A large belch erupted that stung the inside of the sheriff’s nose. This event had pushed back any answers he had hoped to get and only added more missing pieces to the puzzle. Whatever happened to Jay’s family had happened to the Fouchons. Their houses were miles apart, and there was no obvious connection. Mason downed the Bud, threw the can in the sink, and helped himself to another.

  After a few more swigs, he hollered, “Jay. You got any weapons around here? Pistols or rifles? Shotguns?”

  “Yeah, in my bedroom. Why?”

  “I don’t know what it is that we’re up against. I don’t want to get into a gunfight carrying a Popsicle stick. We need all the ammo we can carry, too.”

  “Down the hall, door on the left. In the closet, the combination is 48—7—18—33.”

  Mason walked down the hall, passed Jay tending to the bites on his leg, and then into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and the room looked like a comfortable love nest. He opened the door to the extra-large closet and saw the big green gun safe against the back wall. Mason stepped between two rows of women’s shoes and hanging clothes. He turned the knob the designated number of twist for each number until he felt the last of the tumblers fall into place.

  “Jackpot.”

  The top half of the safe was full of handguns, neatly displayed on shelves alongside each other. The bottom half was stacked with ammo. Mason counted 18 handguns of various makes and models.

  Jay walked up. “See anything you like?”

  “Yes. All of them. Look at all these, Kimber, Baer, Sig Arms, HK, Colt . . . this is some collection you have here.”

  “I like guns. Guns are good investments. They never lose their value.”

  “Which one are you going to let me use?”

  “Take your pick. It doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters anymore,” Jay’s voice faded.

  “Wow, thanks.” Mason picked up half of the pistols and tested the grip. “I love my Glock. It’s a 9mm. I’ll take this HK45 for extra punch and this compact .380 for a backup.”

  “Good choice.” Jay reached on a top shelf above the clothing and pulled off two holsters. “Here’s an ankle holster for the .380, and another for the HK.” He pushed Mason to the side and stooped down, picking loaded pistol magazines off the shelf. “Here’s four clips for the HK and four for your Glock. I’ve got a tote bag we can carry boxes of ammo in.”

  “What will you carry?”

  “These two.” Jay selected two identical guns and held them under his chin, his hands crossed forming an X. “Colt Gold Cup .45s. Like the Shadow used to use in the pulp magazines years ago. Of course, he didn’t have Colt Gold Cups, but who cares? I’ve practiced a lot. I’m pretty good at shooting these together.”

  “Let’s hope these events are isolated and we won’t have to test your skills. I’m still the law, and you’re just a citizen. There will be a mountain of paperwork if you go and shoot somebody, even in self-defense.”

  Ignoring Mason, Jay grabbed a cloth bag from the floor and started loading it with 50 round boxes of 9mm rounds, .45 bullets, and shotgun shells.

  “What’re the shotgun shells for?” Mason asked.

  “Over there.” Jay pointed to the corner where a sawed-off shotgun propped against the wall. He kept testing the bag as he added ammo until he lifted it one last time, and then zipped it up. “About 40 pounds worth. Anymore and we may stress the strap too much.”

  “40 pounds? How many rounds is that?”

  “A lot. Grab the shotgun on your way out.”

  Mason let the comment pass as Jay turned and marched out of the closet. He followed him to the kitchen.

  “Anything else we need?” Jay asked.

  Mason thought about another beer, but felt too embarrassed to say so. A citizen was about to go out into an unknown situation locked and loaded, if would be a poor representation of the law if the sheriff was guzzling beer during a crisis. “We’re good. Let’s go.”

  The front door opened with Jay leading the way. The two walked past the bodies until reaching the Bronco. Jay focused his gaze on the ground, away from the two corpses, the whole way.

  The sheriff opened the driver’s side door as Jay continued around to get in the passenger’s side. Jay stopped as he arrived in front of the truck. He looked at the bodies, his eyes glazed over.

  “Do you want me to get a blanket and cover them?” Mason asked.

  “No, thanks. It’s okay. That’s not my wife and son.” Jay set the bag down, and pulled back on the slide of one of his Colts, snapping in a round. “Let’s find out whatever, or whoever did this. They better pray that God has mercy on their soul, because they won’t get any mercy from me.”

  Mason was happy to have an ally, but hoped Jay wouldn’t end up becoming a loose cannon.

  The passenger door closed, and Jay winced in pain as he settled into his seat. Mason shut his door and fired up the Bronco, giving Jay another look over. “You feeling okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I’m going to take you over to the clinic. You don’t look so good.” Jay’s face was pale, and tiny beads of sweat covered his forehead. The whites of his eyes turned dingy, almost gray, and small fissures of red were visible.

  “I’m sure I’m in some form of shock. What I just went through is a nightmare. Heck, it doesn’t even seem real. I’ll probably be a basket case tomorrow. Put me in a straitjacket, lock me up and throw away the key.”

  The Bronco fired to life and shifted into drive. Mason hit the gas and climbed up the embankment to the road headed toward town.

  The police radio remained silent. Keying the mic and begging for help proved to be more of a waste of time. Mason had stuffed his pants pockets with the pistol magazines that Jay had given him. The ones in his right pocket dug into his thigh. He fidgeted in his seat to get comfortable, but in the end, he had to pull a few out, and placed them on the center console. “Hey, these bullets look different. What kind are they.”

  Jay’s head listed toward him. “Black Talons.”

  “Black Talons. ‘Cop killers’? I think they were banned back in the ‘90s.”

  “If you’re going to shoot someone, always shoot to kill.”

  That wasn’t the military’s philosophy in warfare. They were happy just to wound the enemy enough to incapacitate him. The reasoning being it took three healthy men to take care of one injured man, stretch the enemy force out. Plus, it pulled money and resources away from the battlefront. Mason didn’t follow up with his next question, how Jay had managed such a large stockpile of the illegal ammo, because Jay’s eyes were closed and his mouth open. The man had fallen fast asleep. Stressed out so much his body is shutting down. Poor guy. I hope he sleeps all the way back to town. Mason noticed that Jay’s seatbelt was undone and considered waking him up to remedy that. He couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the man and continued driving.

  The Bronco buzzed down the highway without coming across another vehicle. Mason’s mind ran wild with a hundred different scenarios, as to what had gone wrong, and how this would all turn out in the end. He prayed that Troy would be waiting for him at the station with a full explanation. Things rarely worked out that way. The unknown had a habit of hiding in the corners and surprising him when he least expected it. Just ask Hart.

  In the distance, a tiny figure walked across the highway and continued into the tall weeds growing all along the side
of the road. What caught Mason’s eye was the slow movement and the way the body jerked with each step. This person was either crippled, or worse. He remembered Jay’s explanation of Ethan walking like a ‘toddler.’

  Mason rubbed the corners of his mouth with his fingers and brought them down to his chin. Not more of this shit, he thought. He lifted his foot off the gas pedal and let the Bronco slow to under 20 miles an hour. When he was close to the area where the figure crossed, he slowed to a creep, and looked past Jay trying to find him or her.

  Mason saw the back of someone heading for the bayou. He stopped and watched as it slowly lurched away. There was no doubt that something was wrong. It was those same unnatural movements the others had made earlier. A sure sign it had succumbed to that horrible transformation.

  For a brief moment, he considered chasing it down and killing it. Jay continued to breathe shallowly next to him, and he thought it best all the way around for him just to get to town. Mason hit the gas again and didn’t plan on stopping until he reached the station.

  With only ten more minutes to go before reaching downtown, Jay let out a breath that sounded more like a growl. Mason jerked his head and saw a wad of thick drool seep down Jay’s bottom lip and chin, hanging like syrup several inches down.

  Mason gagged.

  Jay’s arm twitched, his chest jutted forward three times in spasms, and his hands flayed in the air before him.

  Mason pressed his side against the door and kept a wary vigil. He hoped to God that what was happening wasn’t what he thought was happening.

  Jay awoke as if startled from sleep. He turned his head toward Mason and brandished his teeth as a weapon.

  Mason reached his hand under the seat and retrieved the HK. He brought it up and pointed it at Jay.

  Jay grabbed it before he could pull the trigger and snatched the gun from Mason’s hand. He lunged from his seat and grabbed Mason’s arm.

  The truck had been traveling nearly 60 miles an hour. Mason had the daunting task of maintaining control of his truck and fighting off the attack of a flesh-hungry madman. There was only one chance he had to get out of this situation alive.

  He slammed his foot on the brake and pressed with all his might. The seatbelt locked, holding him from hitting the steering wheel. Jay’s head crashed into the windshield, sending a spider-web of cracks across the glass.

  The truck fishtailed to a stop. Mason’s body fell back into the seat. He didn’t wait to check on the zombie’s condition, and snatched the door handle open and freed himself from the harness as fast as humanly possible.

  No sooner had Mason fallen out the truck, and picked himself up from the asphalt, when the zombie crawled to his side of the cab and reached out to grab him.

  In one swift motion, Mason drew his 9mm and blew a hole in the monster’s head. It died immediately. The body slumped across his seat, arms hanging down.

  Mason kept the gun aimed at the thing, ready to fire again if it made any attempt to move. It didn’t. Upon closer examination, the bullet left a hole in Jay’s head four times the diameter his other shots did. Mason realized that it was the black talon bullets. He had swapped clips in Jay’s bedroom in order to have a full magazine. The expanding hollow point bullet had lived up to its reputation.

  There are brains and shit in my truck. The pistol went back in the holster. Mason pulled the zombie out of the truck and dragged him well off the side of the road. He looked around at landmarks to find the spot so he could come back later.

  Most of the brain gunk had spattered on the passenger side. At least he wouldn’t have to wallow in it on the way back.

  The truck had remained at an idle. Mason shifted into drive and again headed for the station.

  Not two miles away from his destination, Old Cyprus Road intersected with the highway. That was the way to Troy’s house. Troy had said he was going home for lunch. It was nearly four o’clock now. There was little chance he would still be home. Unless, of course, he did score some afternoon delight with Skylar. Even if he wasn’t there, she might be alone. Alone in a town with prisoners running about and zombies seeking fresh meat.

  He hit the brakes at the last minute and turned at the junction. If Skylar was alone, she may need help. He couldn’t live with himself if something happened to her, and he had been this close to picking her up and bringing her to the station with him.

  Chapter 9

  Order Up

  “Food’s ready,” the cook called from the kitchen. Rosella glided to the counter to collect her order. One hamburger steak, cooked medium rare, and a fried catfish special were grabbed by delicate hands and brought over to the waiting customers.

  “Here you are, ma’am, and sir,” Rosella said, as she set the plates in front of the elderly man and woman occupying a booth. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “No, ma’am. Just the check when you get a chance. We aren’t feeling very well, and we’d just like to leave when we finish eating,” the husband said. The wife just stared at the immense portion of fried fish.

  “Won’t be a problem,” Rosella said, walking away and punching in the order on the computer system. The printer spit out the ticket, making a mechanical whine.

  She brought it to the table and set it down. “Whenever you’re ready.” She smiled.

  It was a forced smile as she looked around at the half-empty diner. Dinnertime was usually their best shift. Without many options in the town to catch a bite to eat, The Cast Net Diner was a fixture for many locals, some coming every day, but this time it was different. They had been busy this morning, packed actually, but as breakfast faded to lunch and then to dinner, the number of patrons waned. Rosella had noticed a few had been rubbing their noses, coughing, and just looking flat-out sick. Maybe there was a bug going around, she thought, clearing plates from another table. There were only ten people eating in the diner, and with three waitresses working, no one was making much money.

  She kept an eye on the table of the elderly husband and wife. Both ate quickly, as if in a rush to leave. The two finished their dinner, and the man opened his wallet and slapped a few bills on the check. The couple bounded for the door. Rosella walked over to the table and picked up the cash. The ticket was for $24.87. The man had generously left her $25.00.

  “Fucking assholes,” Rosella muttered under her breath as she cleared the table.

  Now was not the time for people to get stingy with their money. She was a school teacher in Pelican Pass, a small city 20 miles north of Botte. Teaching was her passion, but it didn’t pay well. Some months she struggled just to keep her electricity on, and it wasn’t her fault. She had a normal life growing up, as normal as a Creole girl in the South could have. Blessed with natural beauty and a bubbly personality, she fit in and made friends easily. Her dad had left her and her mother when she was only seven, and hadn’t made much of an effort to be a part of his daughter’s life.

  Her mom had tried making excuses for him, saying he was too far gone from time spent in the war, but she wouldn’t have any of that. Her dad was a coward, and to Rosella, she didn’t have a father. Her mom raised her, and did a great job instilling values and a work ethic. Rosella was the first member of her family to graduate from college, and her mom was there the entire way.

  Conversely, Rosella was there for her mom when the breast cancer diagnosis came. It was an aggressive cancer, and in four months, she went from a lively woman to the grave. Rosella had stood by her mom’s coffin at her funeral, numb to what was going on. Staring down at her mother’s lifeless body seemed surreal. When her father showed up it only made matters worse. His tears and condolences were far too little, and far too late, for Rosella to believe them to be genuine.

  She knew he wasn’t crying for her or her mom. He was crying because he was a fraud, a coward, and when times were tough he had bolted. She didn’t have a father, and that didn’t change at the funeral.

  Her mom had left her the small home in Botte where she had been raised. Though Ro
sella tried to live away, renting out a small apartment in Pelican Pass, she found with the mounting bills and problems that arose from living in an old apartment complex that she would be better suited to taking over the house. At least the mortgage had been paid off.

  She took a part time job as a waitress, working more hours than she intended to, but someone had to work to keep the lights on. She had resisted relationships all her life, hurt by her father, and focusing all her attention on her mother. It was a wonder she didn’t become a lesbian, but after a brief experiment in college, she learned that girls just didn’t do it for her. Mason was the first man she would be going on a date with in years. There was something about the quiet Sheriff that intrigued her. His eyes were sad, but kind. He was nervous when he spoke to her. She found that endearing and cute. He also had the right amount of mystery to him, and Rosella was curious to find out what had happened in the life of Sheriff Mason.

  No matter how excited she was about her upcoming date, a measly thirteen cents wasn’t going to help her financial woes. A funeral was expensive, and by the time Rosella had paid off as much of her mom’s funeral as she could, she was still left with thousands of dollars of debt. The funeral company didn’t care about her situation. The fact that she was a poor teacher and she had lost her mother didn’t matter. She was given a bill of what she owed and borrowed the rest from the company, with a nice healthy interest rate tacked on. Rosella figured that by the time she paid for her mother’s funeral, she would have paid for it twice.

  Rosella wasn’t a beggar, nor was she one to complain. She worked hard and kept her problems to herself. She would find a way to makes ends meet, somehow. Maybe do some extra tutoring, or teach summer classes. She loved her two months off in the summer, but it didn’t do her much good if she was taking home scraps from the diner to eat at night because buying groceries wasn’t in the budget.

  The bell over the diner chimed noisily, and it rescued Rosella from her thoughts. A man staggered in, and Rosella noticed something wasn’t quite right. She was standing behind the counter, but could see his disheveled hair and mud stained face. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as if he had just run a marathon. One of the waitresses, a plump woman named Ester, walked toward him.