Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

by Scioneaux, Mark C.

  “We’re going to Paradis,” Mason said.

  “The prison? Are you sure about that?” Troy said.

  “Sure as shit, I am. Look, their spotlight is on. Survivors are there. One of my fellow Rangers is there as well, and I’d bet good money he’s the one working that light.”

  “Who do you know over there?” Rosella asked, joining Mason at the window.

  “His name is Mitch Blackwell. Real nice guy.”

  “Mitch Blackwell?” Rosella asked.

  “Oh, you know him?”

  “Yeah, that asshole is my father. The deadbeat who abandoned my mom and me.”

  Mason felt as if all the air had been sucked out the room. The tension radiating from Rosella could be cut with a knife, and though her skin was a tanned cocoa, her cheeks burned red with flushed anger.

  “Rose, I didn’t know. How could I have known?” Mason said.

  “I’m not going anywhere near him. I’ll stay here. I’d rather die.”

  “Rose, be reasonable. This isn’t normal circumstances we’re dealing with. He’s a Ranger, like me. We can keep everyone safe, and right now that is what we need.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are.” Mason felt the anger rising in him.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff?” Rosella glared at him.

  “You’re coming with us. I’m not leaving anyone behind. Rangers don’t do that, and more importantly, I don’t do that. I’ve done my best to protect everyone, and I intend to keep doing that. So you can throw your spoiled brat temper-tantrum if you want, but I’ll drag you out there by your hair if I have to. And I mean it.”

  Rosella stood, stunned. A wave of tears ran down her face. She turned away, rushing to the far corner of the room, where she buried her hands in her face and wept. Troy shrugged his shoulders, giving Mason the ‘what-you-gonna-do’ expression. The sound of a hand slapping a door from the hallway broke the tension in the room. Cotton had awakened.

  Mason and Troy rushed out toward the interrogation room. They both stood back as Cotton’s face pressed against the glass window. His eyes were cloudy, and the pupils could barely be seen. His face was twisted in a snarl, and when he saw the Sheriff and Deputy, he let out a hellish groan and smashed his forehead against the glass. A thin crack appeared, and Cotton continued, unaware of the bloody mess he created. Mason drew his pistol.

  “What’s the plan?” Troy asked.

  “Either I break the glass and shoot him, or he does it for me and I shoot him.”

  As if on cue, the glass shattered, and Cotton’s roar filled the hall. Mason looked away and saw the others huddled in the doorway, watching. He strode forward and aimed his gun.

  “I guess you can consider this my letter of resignation.” Mason pulled the trigger. The Mayor fell backward, never to move again.

  Mason holstered the gun and walked back to the conference room. The audience scattered, all gazes fixed on him.

  “Okay, everyone, grab all the guns, ammo, food, and water you can carry. We’ll fight our way to the prison transport van in the back and head to Paradis.”

  Chapter 17

  Rescuing a Ranger

  An orange glow frowned across the horizon. The dark of night pushed at the last bit of remaining light. The tree line appeared like tall fencing once past the flat grounds of Paradis. This made Mitch Blackwell feel even more isolated as he stood surveying the area from the watch tower. He dreaded the thought of spending another night trapped at the prison without any real chance of escaping on his own. His stomach rumbled from going over 24 hours without eating. At least the tower had a water cooler to keep him from dehydrating.

  The infected inmates had continued to beat on the door throughout the day. Their haunting moans sang a deadly song that destroyed his efforts to tune them out. His training in the military had taught him methods to cope with torture in the event he had been captured by the enemy. It had become clear to him that, given enough time, the enemy would always win.

  There were tortures of another kind at work deep within his mind. His failures in life came back to haunt him. If his life ended now, how would his accomplishments be judged? His stint in the Army had been so long ago, no one really remembered his honors and decorations. In fact, it had been a red mark against him when he had returned to the States. He remembered all the names his fellow countrymen had called him. Things like murderer and baby killer. He had even been spat upon more than once while wearing his fatigues in public. He did find employment with the state working as a guard. The job paid almost nothing in the beginning. The prisoners reminded him daily of what a lowlife piece of shit he was. Worst of all, his self-pity had consumed him so completely, that he drifted emotionally from his wife and daughter. Mitch’s bitterness killed his marriage and spurned the love from his child. That wound had left the deepest cut.

  The darkness also brought memories of the previous night and the unfortunate coincidence, which brought the demise of what, may have been his only chance for hope.

  Brown crashed to the ground and landed in a crumpled mess. A few of the inmates immediately moved in his direction, but stopped before reaching the body.

  Mitch watched and tried to reason out the level of mental capacity of the possessed inmates. He didn’t know if it was sight, smell, sound, or some hidden sense the inmates used to find victims. They operated like machines, shark-like feeding machines. Just as strong, or stronger, than they were before falling to the illness.

  “Nothing but a bunch of mindless fucking zombies,” he said aloud.

  Fredricks lay motionless, barely breathing. Inmates craving flesh still pounded at the door to get in. There were five shells in Mitch’s shotgun, hardly enough to consider an escape. He would have to wait for the zombies to lose interest or for help to arrive.

  His mind shifted to scenes from movies where a helicopter arrives and a ladder unfolds to the ground. He had been on many missions in Vietnam where he had been rescued by a helicopter. None of the saves were as glorious as those on the silver screen, where the hero grabs the ladder with one hand and fires a gun at the enemy with the other. Vietnamese jungles were dense. Sometimes the tree canopies could be three layers thick. The rescue ’copter they called the Jolly Green Giant was equipped with a wench and 300 foot cable that would lower a harness down past the branches to the ground. The ride back up had its dangers, and in fact, Mitch’s arm had been broken by a tree branch at the end of one mission.

  A fire alarm screeched from the direction of the solitary confinement facility, nicknamed, The Hole. Even though Paradis was a maximum security prison, most of the inmates lived in barracks similar to those in the military.

  The fire alarm was wired directly into the security system that kept the doors locked. No matter the risk of escape, during a fire, all the cell doors were set automatically to open. Mitch searched his mind and tried to remember how many more inmates would be joining the party. It could be anywhere from 10 to 30 and, for some reason, he had an inkling the number would be on the higher side.

  Faint engine rumbles triggered him to spin around and look toward the road leading to the prison’s entrance. Two wide sets of headlights bounced in his direction. Help was on the way.

  The lighting was good enough for Mitch to make out the shape of Humvees. His heart leapt, knowing that trained groups of troops were the first to arrive. Anyone else, including the local police, he doubted would fare as well.

  Three zombies waited in front of the gate as the vehicles slowed to a halt. The doors opened, and several soldiers spilled out with weapons drawn. Fire shot from rifle muzzles and riddled the zombies, dropping them to the ground.

  Two teams of five men approached the gate with cautious steps. One soldier scanned the faces of the inmates with his flashlight as they passed.

  Mitch waited for the troops to get closer, and then, called out while waving his arms. “Up here! I’m up here!” A beam of light trailed up from the ground and found him. “I’m
trapped on the tower.”

  “Identify yourself,” a voice called.

  “Mitchel Blackwell, Assistant Warden of Paradis.”

  “How many survivors?”

  “There’s just me, and one guard that needs immediate medical attention. He’s in a diabetic coma.”

  “Where’s the entrance to the tower?”

  “It’s just inside the gate, turn south and take the first set of stairs. The area’s hot. A bunch of crazed inmates are between me and the ground.”

  “How many?”

  “Can’t say for sure. There are a few that are stuck on stupid and are wandering in a wide circle. Others may be hiding about. I know that a large number from lockdown have just escaped.”

  “Sit tight, we’ll be up there as soon as possible.”

  The soldiers passed through the gate alongside the 18 wheeler and out of Mitch’s sight until they made it inside the prison. Sporadic gunfire dropped the zombies in Mitch’s immediate view.

  A soldier screamed, and the others turned back toward the gate. Then another screamed before the guns came alive again.

  Mitch had to assume that some of the zombies were hiding behind or under the truck. Again, he had to wonder about the level of intelligence the infected possessed. Of course, there was always the chance that some were smarter than the others were. Maybe a handful still had the ability reason, to plan a sneak attack rather than operate as a ravenous robot. If accurate, that would severely complicate matters.

  The zombies at the door did not leave their vigil. Mitch had five shotgun shells left. Would it be enough to blast his way down and join the squad? He would only get one chance to find out. That was a decision he would have to make, just not right now.

  More zombies staggered out from the buildings and shadows, in an eerie death march toward the small group of soldiers. Bodies shook as automatic weapons fired into the crowd. Only a few took headshots and fell.

  Seven of the soldiers ran farther from the gate inside the compound, heading toward the oncoming zombies. Mitch didn’t understand why, until he counted a small group of zombies chasing after them from behind. He turned and looked over the front wall, and saw a few more zombies heading toward the entrance. Some of them must have been patrolling the area and were drawn in by the soldier’s arrival.

  The situation changed by the second. Many of the zombies had fallen, but the soldiers were still outnumbered, with more zombies drawn from the compound in that direction.

  Mitch raised his shotgun and fired twice into the group from the gate. The buckshot hit the crowd, but none fell. It wasn’t easy to make a significant headshot with a shotgun at such long range.

  One of the soldiers yelled he was out of ammo and threw his rifle to the ground. He yanked his sidearm from the holster and fired.

  Mitch fired three more times and only managed to hit one in the head. His shotgun clicked empty. The conclusion slowly forced its way into his mind, and it horrified him. All the soldiers were going to die. They were going to fall to a pack of hungry savages, and he could do nothing but watch.

  He closed his eyes as the man-eaters fell on his military brethren. Frenzied screams of anguish erupted, as fingers clawed, and teeth bit into living flesh. Mitch trembled and gagged a few times. His mind tried not to dwell on the horror, and he prayed to God that it would end quickly.

  Still, the zombies beating at the door of the tower had not stopped.

  He sprang to his feet in a fit of rage, ran to the door, and pounded his fist against it. “Get the fuck away! Do you hear? Get the fuck away!” Tears and snot flowed freely. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Mitch’s strength left his body, as he slowly sank to the floor.

  Fredricks’ head tilted awkwardly to the left. His glassy gaze showed no knowledge of the horrors around him. He didn’t look like he was in pain, and he didn’t look like he was at peace. Fredricks was simply dead and gone. It was sad in some way, and made Mitch feel even more alone.

  He rose to his feet and estimated that 50 zombies had gathered to fight over the catch. The 18 wheeler was some 15 to 20 feet below the wall. There was a possibility he could jump from the wall to the trailer, and make a run for one of the Humvees. It was a good distance, but age had taken its toll, and back in the day, he wouldn’t have hesitated at the thought. If he sprained an ankle, or worse, broke a bone, he would have no chance of making it.

  At least the soldier’s cries had stopped. The crickets and cicadas called out to remind him that the world still went on. He sat with his back against the wall, praying for blessed sleep to take him away.

  The pack of zombies at the door continued their ceaseless attempt to break in.

  * * *

  Rosella sat next to Mason with her arms crossed, her head turned away. She had been silent for several minutes. Mason held his tongue. He had tried to make her feel guilty because Mitch was, after all, her father. That had backfired big time. She recounted every single detail of just how Mitch had failed throughout her life. At least that’s how it seemed to Mason. Elephants? Women had far superior abilities to recall all of the wrongs perpetrated against them.

  “Once we get to the prison, are we going to stay there?”

  Mason felt relief that someone had broken the tension that his and Rosella’s argument had created. “You know, it’s too soon to say. That might be an option. I’m sure there’s plenty of supplies to last for a long, long time. However—”

  “Do they have internet? I need to update my Facebook status. ‘My dad turned into a zombie today,’” Beaux said.

  Troy shook his head, “Jesus Christ.”

  A light came on from back of the van drawing Mason’s gaze to the rearview mirror. Joyce sat alone in the last seat and had a lighted makeup compact out. After applying a coat of lipstick, he could have sworn she looked toward the front and pursed her lips, making a mock kiss toward him. This woman had just lost her husband, but she, apparently, had already overcome her grief. Beaux wasn’t showing any great remorse either. Perhaps both were in shock, or the selfishness of this generation was rearing its ugly head.

  Mason thought better than to unleash a quick, verbal beat down on the young punk behind him. There was still time enough to build some trust from the group, instead of leading through intimidation.

  “You should’ve let me finish. I was going to say, ‘However, I encountered two zombiefied prisoners earlier.’ You know the shit turning them into zombies is in the water supply. I’m sure the people working at the prison had water brought in and knew better than to drink the stuff. We haven’t seen anyone from the prison along the way. I’m hoping the majority are locked up tight in Paradis.”

  “The prison is a long ways from town. If more have escaped, they may not have had time to make it that far yet,” Skylar said.

  “Well, I can’t argue with that. We’re almost there now and I—oh fuck.”

  As if on cue, the headlights shined on a figure walking down the side of the road, dressed in unmistakable Paradis orange.

  “There goes that theory. I can’t believe you’re leading us to where this disease first broke out. You must have some kind of death wish, and you are hell bent on taking us all with you,” Rosella said.

  Mason gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. “‘I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy. That’s part of the Ranger’s Creed. Mitch Blackwell is an Army Ranger. I need to find out if he’s still alive.” The van sped by the zombie and headed for Paradis.

  “I don’t want to die,” Mindi said, her voice quivering, tears formed in her eyes.

  “No one’s going to die. I’m responsible for your lives, too. At the very least, I have to check out Paradis and get a grasp on the situation. If it doesn’t look good, we’ll leave. I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t make an attempt.”

  “Everybody just needs to trust Sheriff Mason. He’s gotten us this far. It’s important we all stick togeth
er. It’s the only chance we have of surviving this mess,” Troy said.

  “We’re almost there. Looks like a couple of Humvees up ahead.” Mason slowed the van and came to a stop a few yards away. “Looks like the Army made it here, but I certainly don’t like the looks of things.”

  The gates to Paradis were wide open, with the 18 wheeler blocking half of the entrance. A few zombies meandered around the front and turned toward the van’s headlights.

  “I think it’s too late for anyone here,” Rosella said.

  Mason didn’t respond. The searchlight that had drawn his attention to Paradis earlier still pointed aimlessly into the night sky. It may have once been a call for help, but it was clear now that it was a sign of defeat.

  “Let’s ditch this van and take the two Humvees. I’m itching to take one of those on the road.” Beaux had leaned forward in his seat and looked between Mason and Rosella.

  Mason thought about bringing his fist up and backhanding Beaux in the face. “Sit back. We’re not splitting up.” He shifted the van into reverse, backed up, and left Paradis behind.

  * * *

  Headlights approached Paradis and stopped near the Humvees. Mitch’s heart swelled as hope once again presented itself. Most of the inmates had left the prison. If he had saved the last five shells he wasted trying to save the troops, chances were good that he could kill the few zombies that remained behind the door, and take a truck out of there. Coulda-woulda-shoulda. Maybe it didn’t matter now that help had arrived. He prayed there were no unseen surprises to pop-up.

  Mitch leaned over the wall and waved his hands in the air. He realized there were no overhead lights for them to see him. All the lights were directed toward the front, or the compound area. He yelled to attract attention, but knew that unless the rescuers got out of the van, there was no chance for them to hear. Could it be that another chance was about to be snapped away so quickly? “Please, God. Please,” he said under his breath.

  Then the van backed up.

  “No . . . No! Up here! Come back.”