Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 2): Island Dead

by Smith, S. L.

  He again inched around his cover and spied the path ahead. There was an overgrown stand of crape myrtles that had been planted to sell. They stood off to his side. These were too thick and offered little room to maneuver. He would need to mount the small hill before the camp. He would be in the open for the 180 degrees at his back, he thought. He would still be hidden, however, from what lay beyond if he stayed just below the hill’s crest.

  He was soon slicing through the tall grass in a crouched run, without giving his plan a second thought. As he crouched below the crest of the hill, his head spun back and forth along the dirt road which cleaved into the hill. It was already too late, there was at least one zombie in either direction. They spotted his darting movements immediately. Isherwood could sense, rather than hear, the gurgling air bubbles rising up their dead, occluded lungs. Soon, twin moans had shattered the stillness, like the cries of buglers. The battle for the camp has begun.

  Both zombies were still far off, though he thought he could hear something stirring in the grass behind and closer to him. He ignored all these threats for the moment. He slowly raised his head over the crest of the hill to finally see what lay at the camp’s feet.

  “That’s it?” Isherwood said aloud, suddenly. He stood up and walked straight toward the camp. There were only six or seven zombies. He again spoke aloud, “Either they’re in worse shape than I thought, or I’m already too late.”

  Unsheathing the first katana, he leaped towards the first zombie just as it was turning to greet him. Bringing the full momentum of his body to bear, the thing’s came tumbling down. The next wide sweep of the blade was much clumsier. The sword sank deep into one of the timber pilings supporting the camp overhead. “Crap!” Isherwood cursed at himself. “I’ve got to get better at this!”

  Unsheathing his backup katana, he circled around the camp’s underside in a slowly narrowing spiral. At the center of his spiral, lay the foot of the stairs leading up to the camp. This, too, he soon realized was filled with a line of waiting zombies. “Okay, alright, that’s probably enough to trap them.” If he moved efficiently, he thought, he could make this into the Battle of Sterling Bridge, where William Wallace and the Scots mowed down the English has they slowly crossed the narrow passage. His object would be to prevent their swarming. If he was quick, he could mow them down one-by-one as they came tumbling down the stairs. Maybe. He thought.

  He finished cleaning up around the base of the stairs and had completed his circuit just as the zombies we’re beginning to spill down the stairs. The ascending line of rotting flesh was soon spilling over itself in a bloody frenzy. Their clumsiness served them well. As they tumbled down onto one another in a messy, bile-strewn heap, Isherwood’s strategy was defeated.

  He had mowed down all the standing and staggering zombies. He was now hacking away at the things that came crawling towards him. They were spilling out from a mound forming at the base of the stairs. Wet with filth, they almost slithered out of the pile like a tangled brood of vipers. “Fantastic,” Isherwood said as he spat out nastiness that had sprayed into his open mouth. “I’m gonna hafta walk through all this mess.”

  He wiped the sweat and gore from his face, as a fine red-black mist began rising in the air, It had been fanned upward by the rapidly swirling and slashing katana blade. “Screw it.” He said, sheathing his blade. He leapt up and grabbed one of the wooden stair steps. He tried pulling himself up and onto the landing. It would have been a short cut, but his hands slipped on something soft and revolting on the step above. He just managed to land on his feet as he came tumbling back down. Humbled, he moved back to his spot at the foot of the stairs and resumed hacking away.

  The two zombies that had spotted him as he hid against the crest of the hill were slowly staggering towards the camp. He remembered to keep an eye out for these. Sure enough, another three zombies came stumbling towards him from behind. He was a very inhospitable host to the oncoming neighbors. He turned and sliced off their heads one at a time. The blade felt like it was growing warm within his grasp. It was either that, Isherwood thought, or the heads were just cleaving off easier.

  Though it felt both longer and shorter, it took Isherwood another five minutes to clear the steps. He had been forced to stomp across a number of skulls and sick, rotting faces. This was the way he held their quivering heads still as he lobbed off the heads. He was reminded of the Queen of Hearts as he worked through the crowd. “I feel like Henry or Queen Elizabeth massacring the Catholics,” he joked aloud breathlessly.

  Finally, he stood halfway up the steps. He was panting as though he’d been swinging an axe the whole time. The katana was much lighter than an axe or most any other swinging weapon, but even it took his toll. Sweat and gore was dripping from his face. His white eyes shined from the dark muck coating his face as though he had anointed his face with shoe polish.

  “You just gonna stand there?” A voice called from above. The stairs led up to something of a trap door in the camp floor above. The originally stairway, leading to the camp’s front porch, had been hastily destroyed. The stairway leading up to the trapdoor had been allowed to remain, because, even with the stairs, the trap door was only reachable when a ladder was lowered onto the stair’s topmost landing. It was perfect for the occupants’ current predicament.

  Isherwood tilted half of his face upward, too tired to lift his whole head. He smiled wryly at the face he saw there. It was a thinned face, which had grown rapidly careworn since he had seen it last. It was his father-in-law, Glenn.

  “Didn’t you use to have some color in that beard?” Isherwood asked the older man. Glenn moved his hand as though to rub his chin whiskers, but stopped short.

  Glenn’s eyes re-focused on something behind Isherwood. He nodded down the stairs. Isherwood had begun turning as soon as Glenn’s eyes had twitched. As he turned, he drew the katana upward into a defensive position. One twitch of Isherwood’s arm while holding the sword at this angle, and he could dispatch a zombie.

  The creature was still several feet down. It was clinging to the side railing for support, because its foot had been lobbed off. This had probably occurred while Isherwood was slicing and dicing the huddle of fallen zombies. Isherwood shuffled down a few steps and quickly tidied up the matter. He had the high ground, after all. The blade sliced neatly between two of the creature’s cervical vertebrae. The head slapped down against the blood-tinted mud below and the body, slumping over the railing, soon followed.

  During the body’s inexorable slide off the railing, Isherwood took a moment to check out the area surrounding the camp. There were a few zombies beginning to appear around the perimeter. He turned back to see Glenn nodding appreciatively at his handiwork. Isherwood was surprised at how gratifying it was to receive this unspoken praise. He had always admired his father-in-law’s skills as a sportsman. That is, as a hunter and tracker. Isherwood had caught on quickly, but he never felt he would have the skills of someone who grew up around this stuff. His household’s only rifle before all this zombie mess actually belonged to his wife. But he realized suddenly that he might have more natural ability that he ever imagined.

  Isherwood pushed all these thoughts aside, returning to the present. “Where’s the nearest vehicle?” He asked, rapidly switching gears. “How many survivors, Glenn?”

  Glenn was prepared for both of these questions. Isherwood, however, was unprepared for the sight of Glenn. He pulled himself up and through the trap door. His father-in-law was severely emaciated, though his eyes, thankfully, had lost none of their sharpness.

  “Jesse’s camp,” Dale answered, regarding the nearest vehicle. Isherwood wanted to ask how that could’ve happened. They always had a mule or four-wheeler or truck on hand. But he had prepared himself for this answer when he didn’t see any vehicles when he first approached the camp.

  “What is it? Keys in the ignition?” Isherwood asked hurriedly, but was soon distracted. There were no foul smells coming from inside the camp, aside from the
mustiness of people living for extended periods without showering. This was itself a good sign. That means that no one had died, likely – though the dead these days had a habit of walking off – and they had strength enough to dispose of their excrement, likely out of a window.

  Isherwood was distracted by the faces of his wife’s family staring back at him. Their eyes were large, but not because of the excitement at seeing Isherwood. It was because of their obvious state of malnutrition. They smiled up at him weakly.

  Isherwood jerked suddenly, as though he’d been shocked by a live wire. “Food! Of course! I’m so sorry. I’ve been carrying this so long – I just forgot.” He pulled off his swords and holsters and let it all clatter to the wood floor. He fumbled at his backpack, which Justin had not long ago compared to a turtle shell. He struggled to unhook the chest straps and barely noticed the relief in his shoulders as he slid the pack off.

  Glenn was still sitting beside the trap door, having already exhausted himself with just the opening of the door. The rest of the family, at least all of the women, were huddled together on a futon couch. Sara’s two brothers were sitting on the floor along the walls. The center of the camp was an open floor plan of kitchen transitioning into den. The bunkrooms were beyond the central room on either side. Porches wrapped around the camp on two sides.

  Isherwood was moving quickly now. He hurried over to the futon and began passing out water bottles. He had to unscrew the caps for them, because even that, despite their obvious thirst, was overwhelming. He looked into his pack at all the PowerBars he had brought along, and realized that they’d never be able to chew let alone swallow them.

  The whole family was temporarily dazed, ecstatically gulping down the water. They didn’t even notice the look of thought and confusion on Isherwood’s face. He dug down deeper into the pack, and found some chocolate bars. “Here,” he said, unwrapping and distributing the mix of Hershey and Godiva. “This’ll give you a quick jolt of energy. Because you’re gonna need it. Really need it.”

  He retreated to the kitchen area. “There, eat that,” he was saying, mostly to himself. “And I’ll figure out these PowerBars.” They weren’t exactly PowerBars, or he would’ve been in for a serious hassle. They were some sort of dense granola bar. He grabbed some plastic bowls and spoons, which were depressingly unused, and began grinding up the bars into crumbs. Soon, he had something resembling a cereal. He poured water into it, stirred, and made sort of a mash. He darted around giving out the bowls.

  “There,” he said, as they all started to eat with renewed vigor. “Let’s see,” Isherwood said counting off with his fingers and trying to lighten the mood. “Feed the hungry. Give drink to the thirsty. Heal the sick. Visit the imprisoned. Bury the dead, or at least hack off their heads. That’s like five corporal works of mercy.”

  “You’re almost as good as a mother.” Missy, his mother-in-law, whispered softly. Isherwood laughed, and the others attempted smiles.

  “Alrighty.” Isherwood said heavily, bringing his mind back around to their predicament. “Okay. Y’all eat that up as fast as you can, but not too fast. Get some energy back into your bones. I’ll go see what I can do about that – what’d you say it was? – at Jesse’s.”

  “It’s a truck.” Glenn said, speaking with a full mouth of food. “Keys in the visor, hopefully. Don’t think he ever touched ‘em.” Glenn finished ominously.

  Isherwood nodded, understanding all too well what Glenn would only hint at. “Here’s my pack. I’ll leave it right here. There’s more provision inside, plus some spare weapons. Be ready to leave in about five minutes. If I’m not back in five minutes, I’m hotwiring.”

  “Hotwiring?” Glenn raised an eyebrow appreciatively.

  “Yeah,” Isherwood smiled proudly. “I can do that now. You’re brother-in-law taught me.”

  Isherwood put his arms back through the double sword sheath and adjusted the straps across his chest. He was still down to one sword, as the other was still cleaved into one of the camp’s support pilings. He also returned the double holster to his hips. “I’ll leave you with one of these, though.” He said, placing a fully loaded 9mm on the kitchen counter. Seconds later, he was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: BARNSTOKK

  Isherwood dropped silently through the trap door and onto the stairs below. There was a welcoming party, but he was relieved there weren’t more. “Y’all are like rats, you know?” He whispered as he skullcapped a nicely dressed woman, likely another interstate zombie. “Or girl scouts. Turn your back for just a second, and you’ve come spilling out of the woodwork.”

  He wanted to heave himself onto the railing of the stairway and swing his feet into the chest of the next oncoming zombie, but he held himself back. It was easier to chop them down, one by one, as he descended the stairs. Besides, he thought, the railings were slick with gore and nastiness. Just his luck, he goes sliding down into the hacked up dogpile he had created earlier.

  He struggled to retrieve his sword from the wood piling. It was easy to overestimate the sharpness and power of this sword, Isherwood thought as he saw how far the blade had sank into the wood. He didn’t have the time to do this correctly, even if he knew how. He stabbed one sword into the soft earth. Looking around, he kicked his foot up onto the timber post. He then jumped up and grabbed the hilt of the sword and then let the weight of his fall jerk down on the sword. He did this a few more times. It hadn’t budged.

  “Oh, come on!” Isherwood called out, a little too loud. He was suddenly aware of the pain and fatigue in his arms and legs, and of the cold sweat at the back of his neck that meant heat exhaustion.

  “Alright, have it your way. Give me my sword,” and he pulled again at the sword. The sword came out smoothly this time, as if it lay loose for him. “Whoa.” He coughed, looking down suspiciously at the sword in his hand. He quickly looked around. He shook his head, disappointed that no one had seen it. Not even a zombie. He reached up along the timber piling, just above where the sword had been embedded only a moment ago. He felt something written there. There were letters carved into the wood.

  “Probably Croatoan.” He said, rolling his eyes. He pulled up on the wood to get a better look. “Barstool? Must be a manufacturer’s mark or something stupid. No, wait. It’s Barnstokk? What the heck is that?” He shook his head, assuming it was some Norwegian timber producer or something, and walked off toward the next camp.

  ****

  Sunlight glinting off green paint caught Isherwood’s eye. Jesse’s camp lay at the end of the dirt road Isherwood had crossed over when he first came into the camp. A green trunk sat in front of it. Isherwood could feel, rather than see, shadows moving between the pilings of Jesse’s camp. He didn’t want to encounter the dead version of Jesse. Hopefully, he was thinking to himself, the keys would be exactly where Glenn had said. Under the visor.

  The truck was a small Isuzu or Mitsubishi affair. “A golf cart?” Isherwood whispered to himself. “I’m supposed to rescue a family the size of a small village with this? Might as well take the slather-ourselves-with-rotting-guts approach.”

  He lifted the door handle. The thing squealed back at him, like a frightened chicken. A second later, the noise was answered by several moans from under Jesse’s camp. “Fantastic.” Isherwood moaned. He thought to himself, at least it was unlocked. He slid into the small cab of the truck, resting his swords in the passenger seat, and closed the door behind him. The door howled in protest as he did. Only seconds now, he thought. “If the keys aren’t up –”

  Isherwood suddenly dove into the passenger side of the truck. The gear sheet rammed up into his gut. “Cuss-biscuits!” He howled in pain before opening his eyes and realizing that he had come a hair’s breadth from slicing off his face on the sword. He looked back towards the window, expecting to see a zombie about to spill into the already-tight cab with him. There was just a blood smear of a hand. Soon, a dark, mouldering face careened into sight. It was pressing itself slowly against the window.
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  “Let’s try this again,” Isherwood said, as more bodies began hurling themselves at the little truck. Despite the panic rising in his chest, he took a second to say a prayer that the keys were about to spill into his lap.

  “Sweet baby Jesus!” He squealed when the keys full into his lap. “Let’s do this,” he said suddenly feeling optimistic. The engine turned over after only a couple tries. “Alright,” he said, and pushed down slowly on the accelerator.

  Nothing. He could hear the whine of the rear wheel drive, but the vehicle wasn’t budging. He looked into the rear view mirror, and saw something awful. He could see the shape of a man through the muck-encrusted window. It was Jesse. Or was. It had been Sara’s favorite uncle, he thought to himself. And now, he was a giant speed bump.

  The truck was really not much more than a compact car in size. Isherwood could have likely picked up the front half bare-handed. There was little to no heft to the vehicle. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t nudge the Jesse-zombie out of the way. Plowing right over him was out of the question. He felt like he was backing into a tree, or at least a stump. He could go forward, though, thankfully.

  He took a few seconds to roll down the windows a half inch or so. It was wide enough for the blade of a sword but not the hilt. He knocked a couple quick holes into the heads of the zombies at his flanks, and pulled forward. He would make a loop around the back of the camp, and hopefully lose the walking remains of his wife’s uncle in the process. This was a zombie kill he was desperately hoping to avoid. At the same time, he didn’t want the others to see him. Their morale was a precious quantity.

  He decided that he couldn’t risk the LaGranges seeing Jesse. He waited until the bear-size zombie staggered around the camp into his rear-view mirror. He kicked the driver’s door open. The door howled in protest. “I know, I know,” Isherwood answered the door. “I don’t want to do it. I have to.”