Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel

by Scioneaux, Mark C.

  You are in direct violation of the State of Louisiana laws. Please turn around immediately or we will be forced to take action.

  “Turn around, you idiots,” Mason pleaded.

  *

  “It’s the Coast Guard! We’re saved,” Mindi said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Why in the hell are they blocking our way?” Beaux said.

  Stop your vessel and turn back. The coastal Gulf region is closed to maritime traffic.

  “What the fuck? We can’t go back. Mason will probably kill us with his bare hands.” Mindi bit her thumbnail.

  Beaux turned to the police radio, flipping switches, and hitting buttons. “How does this damn thing work?” He keyed the microphone a few times, but only picked up static.

  This is your last warning. Turn around or be prepared to receive fire.

  “They’re going to shoot us! Beaux, do something!”

  “I have to turn around!”

  “No. I know what to do.”

  “What?”

  Mindi ran out of the cabin onto the front of the boat. Beaux killed the engine and followed. She pointed the flare gun to the sky. “I’ll shoot a flare in the air. We’re in distress. Maybe they’ll understand.”

  “Put that thing down. That’s a lame brain idea. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself with it when you shot Joyce. We just need to get out of here. Give it to me.” Beaux grabbed the wrist holding the flare gun.

  “No!” Mindi screamed, and pulled the trigger.

  *

  A flare shot from the patrol boat and struck the side of the large Coast Guard vessel. Machine gun fire erupted from the cutter. A huge fireball pushed into the sky, licking at the low hanging clouds. Even at the distance where Mason sat, he felt the incredible heat radiant off his face.

  “We really need to turn around, now,” Troy said, and didn’t wait for Mason to reply before whipping the boat around and heading back for the marina.

  They reached the dock to see a mass of the undead waiting where they left them. Troy pointed the bass boat toward the landing where the Humvee was parked and sped toward it. Once at the landing, Mason hopped onto the seawall and held the painter rope attached to the front of the boat, before helping the others to dry land.

  “I can’t believe what just happened,” Skylar said.

  “Jesus, poor Joyce,” Rosella gasped. Mason wrapped his arms around her.

  “And Beaux and Mindi?” Skylar asked.

  “Beaux and Mindi should have known better than to fire on the Coast Guard,” Troy said.

  “Regardless, there’s no way two teenagers posed a threat that would require deadly force like that. They didn’t even fire a warning shot. Just opened up and took them out. I hate to say this, I really do, but Beaux and Mindi might have just saved our lives. If they wouldn’t have been so foolish, we’d all be dead by now, because that’s where we were heading.” Mason sighed and gripped Rosella tighter.

  “At least we’re better off than they are right now,” Mitch said.

  “Maybe not,” Rosella said, returning from her thoughts.

  Mason scanned the area. “The zombies are on the move again. It’s time for us to go for the alternate plan and head for the parish line. Beyond that, I’m out of ideas.”

  Chapter 19

  Full Circle

  “The road’s clear for now,” Mason said aloud, and mainly to himself. He looked in the rearview mirror back at the marina. No sign the zombies had even made it past the bait store yet. For all he knew, they had lost interest when the Humvee pulled away from dock. Then again, he didn’t have any idea by what means they used to sense the living. Too many questions, and no time for answers.

  “How’s the ribs, Troy?” Mason asked.

  “Hurts like hell. I’ll live, though.”

  Sky reached over and patted Troy on the thigh. “Hang in there, honey. It shouldn’t take us too long to get to the parish line.”

  Up ahead, the wrecked Humvee reminded Mason of how his heart sank in his chest when Troy crashed it an attempt to avoid the distraught woman. They were lucky no one was hurt afterward. The odds were so great against them, it wasn’t worth the risk to hunker down and fight it out. The future was uncertain. He had to take the best opportunity for survival that presented itself then. Just like he needed to do now.

  “I’m going to pull over by the Humvee. We might as well load up on ammo and make sure we have the guns we want. Get food, and any other supplies we’re short of, as well. I know we shouldn’t need any of it, with us being an hour or so from the parish line, but we can’t be sure what’s going to happen between here and there.” A sprinkling of panic colored Mason’s tone as the thought of their truck breaking down, or something else equally unfortunate occurring.

  Troy reached over the seat and patted Mason on the shoulder. “We understand, boss. It’s safe enough for now. Good plan. Thanks for thinking ahead.”

  Rosella sat next to Mason on the passenger side. She turned and looked at Troy.

  Troy winked and nodded his head.

  Mason kept crimping his grip around the steering wheel and relaxing his hand, over and over.

  “Good thinking, Mason,” Rosella said.

  “I just . . . I just don’t want to get caught short. There may be no other second chances.” Mason slowed the Humvee and braked to a stop.

  “I couldn’t help what Beaux and Mindi did . . . it was all their fault. Joyce, I could’ve helped. I should’ve backed away from the patrol boat. She’d be alive right now if—”

  “Mason. That’s enough,” Mitch called from the backseat. “Nothing that happened back there is your fault. No one in here blames those deaths on you, and I’ll be damned if I let you blame yourself.”

  “Mitch is right. Some things are out of your power to control. Put it behind you. If you let the past distract you, if may affect our chances of getting out of here,” Rosella said.

  “No sense in dwelling on it anymore. Those of us left alive need your thoughts more than the dead do.” Troy opened the door. “Everyone out, and let’s get what we can.”

  Mitch opened his door. Everyone piled out heading to the Humvee.

  Mason was the last to exit and began a slow walk around the downed vehicle, his head on a swivel, with a pistol held tightly in his hand.

  “There’s the ammo bag.” Sky picked it up and rummaged through the contents. “Not much in here. I thought it felt light.”

  “Some of the ammo spilled out. I see a few boxes on the roof.” Mitch reached in and gathered what ammo he could find. A few stray 9mm bullets lay about, he picked those up, too.

  “Got some peanut butter crackers and stuff. Some drinks too,” Rosella said.

  Mason rounded the vehicle, and saw Rosella on her knees, with her rear poking his way. Any other time he might have smacked her playfully on the ass, but given their current predicament, Rosella looked more like an animal waiting on her hands and knees to be slaughtered. A chilling howl echoed in the distance, carried by the wind, making it harder to judge the location of its issuer.

  “Wrap it up, guys. Those bastards are on the way back,” Mason said.

  Rosella scooted out the Hummer. Mason took two bags from her containing drinks. She looked at him briefly and forced a smile before heading to the waiting vehicle.

  “Anybody want a Colt Gold Cup?” Mitch asked. “We have the same type of other guns in our truck. I don’t think there’s room to bring everything.”

  “You can bring the .45,” Troy said, “and you’re right. We’ve got more guns than we can carry.”

  “Times running out. I wish we could have siphoned some fuel,” Mason said.

  “How much do we have?” Mitch asked.

  “Quarter tank. Should be enough, I guess. Depends on if we have to take any detours.”

  Mason waited for everyone to climb in the Humvee, a watchful eye on the area. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a flame thrower right now. Or to be able to press the reset button.
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  ***

  It was a somber ride to the parish line. Mason stayed on edge like he was waiting for the boogie man to jump out at any minute. The problem was, the boogie man was real, and there were hundreds of him.

  Rosella had resorted to chewing her fingernails and got pissed when Mason tried to get her to stop.

  “Are you seriously giving me a hard time over chewing my nails?”

  “It’s annoying and distracting my driving. Like little clicking sounds.”

  “Just focus on the road, Mason.”

  Sky wouldn’t let go of Troy’s arm. If Troy were the least bit concerned with the situation, his expression didn’t give it away.

  Mitch had his eyes clenched shut. He could have been in deep prayer, counting his blessings, or counting every sin he’d ever committed in his life.

  “Hey, what’s that over there? Looks like an old house. What’s our fuel situation?” Troy said.

  Mason looked at the dash. “Lower than I like.”

  “This thing uses diesel, right?”

  “Right.”

  “It might be a long shot, but we might find some over there.”

  “Worth a look.” Mason had passed the narrow dirt driveway carved between thick weeds and scruffy blackberry bushes. The area was so lush with foliage he was surprised Troy had spotted the house. He stopped the truck, threw it in reverse, and backed up. A dilapidated wooden framed house was nestled under trees crowded with Spanish moss. “If the driveway didn’t look like it was recently cleared, I would have guessed the old house to be abandoned.” He shifted into gear and the hummer lurched forward.

  Cattails drooped from the left side of the driveway, growing from a camouflaged swampy area, and rubbed against the truck as it passed by. The path snaked slightly to the right and led him to the front of the house. The house’s condition was ten times worse than it looked from the road. The damaged roof sagged above the porch. Some of the decking boards on the porch were missing, and if the house hadn’t been constructed of cypress, it surely would have rotted away a long time ago. From what he could see of the barn behind it, he was surprised it was standing at all.

  Mason’s gaze followed the roofline to the right side of the house. A tree limb had a rope stretched taut downward. He followed the rope to the ground, where at first, he thought it was tied around a dog. The figure rocked slightly back and forth, eager to break free of the restraint looped around its chest, but it wasn’t a dog. It was a child—a young boy. Mason went to speak but put himself in check. The boy had been transformed by the horrible curse plaguing Botte.

  “Mason!” Rosella said, surprise in her voice.

  “I see it. Wait here. I’ll leave the engine running.” The Humvee’s air conditioning worked well. He pulled the door handle and stepped outside, feeling as if his body were engulfed by a sauna.

  “I’m coming with you,” Troy said.

  Mason pushed his door open, and caught Troy’s gaze between the headrest and door jam. “Everyone, wait here.”

  Troy went to protest, but Mason pointed an index finger until he slumped back in his seat next to Sky.

  The wind whipped around Mason’s hair, and tickled his ears, as he walked toward the child. The smell of death hung in the area like a low cloud, ushered toward him by the surging breeze. The odor turned solid in his mouth and layered on his tongue. He struggled not to gag as his mouth filled with saliva.

  The infected child became excited by his presence and found the fortitude to rise to its feet. Its arms reached out. Tiny fingers moved in mechanical motion grasping in desperation into thin air. The angst of its inhuman hunger contorted its small face.

  Something about the child pulled him toward it. He stopped within a few feet of its reach. It bit at the space between them with utter savagery, threating to tear him to shreds at the smallest of opportunities.

  Despite the mask of evil it wore, Mason could see cracks of its humanity hidden underneath. This poor child had been a victim, through no fault of its own. A causality of circumstance. Cursed by men so absorbed in their own lust that even collateral damage of their own women and children wasn’t a deterrent.

  Reality blurred. Mason watched the face of the infected child morph into Kenneth’s, his son. Kenneth started back with wide eyes in confusion; innocent, pleading, screaming from the depths of despair with hurt. It was as if Mason held a knife in Kenneth’s gut and his son was begging for a reason why. What had he done to deserve such abuse? From his father, of all people. His own father!

  Mason realized what the Army, and those responsible for defiling the city of Botte, was no different from what he had done to Kenneth, and to Vicky, his son’s mother. He had been so consumed with his own lusts that it was he who had ruined their lives.

  Mason’s arm’s shook. His legs wavered, and he almost lost his balance. Layers of scar tissue peeled away from his mind, removing all the excuses he used to cover his failings as a man. He blamed the Army—men like Hart—for destroying his life, but it was he who let them have that power. He that let them take that control.

  Who did Kenneth blame for the life he lived now? His mother? How could he? She was the one who stayed with him after the separation. Fed him his meals. Kissed his scrapes and held him in her arms when he was sick.

  Mason used to blame Vicky’s stripper past as a crutch for the way he treated her. Threw it in her face when she hounded him about his drinking. In actuality, it was she who tried to better her life once she became a mother. She went to work for minimum wage at a grocery store while her mother kept Kenneth. It was Vicky who tried to change his life for the better by demanding he didn’t hide from his demons from inside a whiskey bottle. When she left him, it was because she had used the last bit of hope she had for him. Vicky left Mason for the love and wellbeing of her son. Not out of selfishness. She simply left for survival.

  Tears streamed down Mason’s cheeks and dripped on the wiry grass on the ground. He sobbed uncontrollably, and brought a hand across his nose, smearing snot along his face.

  *

  “What’s going on?” Troy asked, trying to look past Sky and Mitch.

  “Mason’s losing it out there. He’s crying. His whole body’s shaking,” Rosella said.

  “I don’t understand. He—we both killed our share of infected children back at the station. I just thought of it as if I were doing the poor souls a favor—putting them out of their misery. I wonder why it’s affecting him now?” Troy said.

  “Battle fatigue, I guess,” Sky said. “I bet it can get to anybody.”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s not battle fatigue,” Mitch said. He looked up at the seat in front of him, where Rosella sat, and then back down at his lap, and closed his eyes. “It’s much deeper. It’s something personal. I can tell.”

  Troy and Sky looked at each other without exchanging words.

  Rosella sighed, “Oh, Mason . . .” The palm of her hand pressed against the passenger door window.

  *

  Mason took a deep breath and stiffened his back. He was at a crossroads and had a choice to make. Errors he had made in life pressed down on him like an unmovable weight, threatening to smother the last ember of hope that waned inside. Ghosts from the past swirled in his mind hurling a barrage of accusations. It was more than he could stand. It physically ached for him even to exist. Every second that ticked by an eternity of torments. His knuckles turned white, the pistol grip fit perfectly in his hand. The arm holding the gun came up, the gun barrel pointed inches from his face as he tread through deep thought. All he had to do was bring the pistol to his head. The hammer was back, and a bullet waited to receive the firing pin. Just a few pounds of pull from his finger and the peace of endless oblivion would be his. It would be so easy. So easy to end it all here and now, once and for all.

  But it was too easy.

  Killing himself would be no different from blaming others for his problems or hiding in alcohol and pills. Just another quick fix to block out tomorr
ow, but killing himself would be worse. It wasn’t kicking the ball down the road to deal with it later. It would be giving up without any chance to make things right. Admitting defeat. Proving that he was a worthless pile of human debris to everyone who had accused him to be.

  “Fuck that,” Mason said. He leveled the gun at the zombie child’s head and pulled the trigger. It was never too late to do the right thing.

  The young boy fell flat on its back never to move again. An old blanket lay wadded near the trunk of the tree. Mason shook it open and hid the boy underneath.

  He turned and made quick steps up the rickety planks of the porch. The front door was partially open. It was obvious where the death smell concentrated from.

  Mason barreled through with the gun aimed to shoot. Three dead bodies—all zombies from what he could tell—lay on the floor of the living room. The living room connected to an open kitchen, which was empty. Doors to two other rooms were on the opposite side. One door was open and one was shut. Shuffling noises and faint scraps on walls came from behind the shut door.

  He grabbed the doorknob with a twist and pushed it open. It bounced off a body standing right in the line of fire. Mason rammed the door with his shoulder, sending the zombie to the ground. Two quick shots from his gun finished the monster. A quick look around ensured the area was clear.

  A few more steps and he was back outside and heading to the barn. It was an old pole barn probably made from discarded telephone poles and scrap wood left over from the construction of the main house. A faded blue Ford tractor parked in the middle looked operational, despite the rust and the fact the information tag showed the production date was 1938. This was a tractor worth restoring if the opportunity presented itself.

  “Ah, ha! Come to Poppa!” Mason snatched up the five-gallon fuel container underneath a workbench and fast timed it to the Hummer. The can was near full—at least four gallons. This would more than make up for the fuel he wasted while the truck idled at the house.

  The fuel cap twisted off. Mason lifted the bottom of the can until the last drop dripped into the tank. The fuel can hit the ground a few feet away with a quick flip of his wrist. Mason wiped his hands on his thighs and hopped into the truck.