Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel (11 page)

As he neared the entrance, Mason slowed his pace and craned his neck to see past the doorway. The inmate was flat on his back, motionless as two chickens pecked away at his face.  After coming to a dead halt, Mason stepped cautiously into the barn. Another inmate lay on the ground near the chicken coops, sprawled on his back with a hideous scowl frozen on his face. The wire had been ripped off many of the cages. A hole in the inmate’s head answered how he died. The other one had a bullet hole in his eye socket.
He killed these two inmates while they were stealing chickens? Fouchon must be one bad motherfucker
.                                   

Mason’s heart was a runaway locomotive. Too many questions flooded his mind at a time when he needed a clear head.
Why did Ryn kill these men? Why wasn’t I alerted if there had been a prison escape? What the hell was going on?

After further inspection of the area, he found a trail of blood that formed a light
anmond anything juistant. n to stick toodroom.n the windows. ? Fouchon  the cages
brown path in the grass, and led straight to the back door of the Fouchon residence. Mason knew he should call for backup, that was protocol, but the adrenaline had taken hold, and he wanted to get to the bottom of this now. Hopefully, he’d find Ryn bawling like a baby that he’d just killed two men in self-defense. When he finished with him, he’d be calling Warden Burl and giving him a piece of his mind.

Mason held his gun out, and at the ready, as he walked toward the backdoor. He knocked on it, ordering Ryn to come out, or to make a noise to let him know he was inside. Again, there was no response. Mason tried the handle and found the door was open. He didn’t have a warrant, but felt probable cause had been firmly established. Dead prisoners tend to do that. He entered the home.

The only light in the Fouchon residence came from the sun hidden behind the curtains on the windows. He passed through a small laundry room and entered the kitchen. For being a petty criminal, Ryn kept a cleaner kitchen than Mason did, and the realization of that inspired him to do some cleaning once he got home. He exited the kitchen and walked through a small living room that contained a desk on one wall. On the desk, remnants of what resembled marijuana and cigarette papers were next to an electric scale.
Busted
, Mason thought, and smiled. He turned up the hallway, and he was greeted with three doors, two on the right, and one on the left. The first door on his right was a bathroom, unoccupied. The next, a spare bedroom on his left, contained a few boxes, and an old mattress. There was one final door, and Mason assumed his questions would be answered once he turned the handle.

“Ryn! This is the sheriff! Open the door.”

Mason heard the faint sound of shuffling feet. He kicked the door open, convinced Ryn was trying to escape through the bedroom window. The stale smell of blood and rot greeted him. Mason gagged, feeling the urge to vomit rising in his throat. Most of Deb was on the bed. She had been ripped apart, her intestines and organs flung about the room. The bed around her was soaked red with blood. Her body was sprawled on the bed, with her head touching the floor, dead eyes staring at Mason. He stumbled backward, knocking pictures off the wall. Ryn stepped out from the gloom of the bedroom.

Mason pointed his gun and stood his ground. Ryn was shirtless and appeared unarmed. A green-soaked bandage was tied around his forearm. His eyes were cloudy, and bits of flesh were stuck in his broken teeth. Ryn stumbled forward, and Mason’s finger itched to pull the trigger.

“What the fuck did you do, Ryn? Finally got too high this time?”

Ryn said nothing. He walked forward, stumbling on feet that didn’t appear to cooperate. Mason took a small step back.

“I’m warning you, son. I will shoot you if you don’t lie down and put your hands behind your head. That’s an order!”

Ryn snarled and swatted the air between them. Without warning, the druggie charged, and Mason fired. The bullet tore through Ryn’s chest and struck the wall behind him, but it didn’t stop the advance of the monster. Mason fired again, but Ryn was on him. The zombie fell forward, and Mason wedged his forearm under Ryn’s chin, preventing the chomping teeth from tearing into his face. Mason’s left hand was free, so he slammed the butt of the gun into Ryn’s head, hearing the crack of bone as he brought the pistol down hard. Ryn continued to snap and drool over Mason as they struggled. With a guttural howl, Mason pushed his forearm up, extending Ryn’s neck. With a swift motion, he brought the gun up, positioned it under Ryn’s jaw, and pulled the trigger. A shower or blood fell on him as Ryn went limp and slumped forward. Mason rolled him off and jumped to his feet, panting.

“You stupid fucker!” Mason said, kicking the limp torso. “Why did you make me do that?”

He flicked a piece of gelatinous head goo off his shoulder and made his way to the bedroom where Deb lay. His breathing intensified as he surveyed the carnage. It was like things he’d seen in Iraq after he had responded to a pipe bomb in a busy market center. He leaned in closer, and nearly hit the floor when Deb opened her eyes and lunged at him. Using his feet to propel himself, he kicked away from the bed. The room filled with the horrible sounds of the disemboweled Deb.
How was this possible? There wasn’t enough of her intact to be able to survive.
He stood, the gun shaking in his hand and affixed on Deb’s face. The fat woman continued snapping at the air, and Mason was relieved to see she was too badly injured to move forward. He panicked. This was all becoming too much for him. Deb uttered undecipherable sounds from her throat far from anything human. Mason started to unravel. He brought the gun forward and placed a bullet in her forehead, silencing her for good.

That was a mistake, and Mason knew there would be some explaining to do when the medical report showed a gunshot wound to the head after the victim had been ripped apart. He would deal with that later. Mason ran out of the house and fell to the grass outside. He dry heaved several times, but was able to keep down his sandwich from the diner. He made his way to the Bronco and reached for the radio, jamming down the receiver, and calling for back up. There was only static.
Fuck!
He flipped out his phone, but saw there was no service.

Feeling that he couldn’t just leave the crime scene, Mason tried the radio again, and got nothing. He held his phone up the sky and waved it around, but no reception bars appeared. Running low on options, he started up his Bronco, and drove toward town. This was going to be a ton of paperwork.

Chapter 8

People Eating People

Mason’s fingers clenched the steering wheel so tight he thought he felt the damn thing bend. He leaned forward in his seat as if to put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever the hell it was that Ryn and Deb had turned into. Nothing like this had ever happened in Botte. Hell, things like this just don’t happen anywhere, really. People eating people?

He had heard a story or two, like where some kid in New Orleans chewed his forearm to the bone thinking it was a roast beef po’boy. The kid had been drinking tea made from Datura flowers, along with a few friends. One of those kids had died. The others had come close to it. When the police arrived after receiving a 911 call from a neighbor, the self-mutilating muncher was chowing down like he was enjoying a normal lunch. He kept insisting that it tasted like a roast beef sandwich. Mason had taken a lot of pain medication in the last several years, but nothing ever messed with his mind like that. Not even chasing a handful of Percodans with a pint of whiskey. What he wouldn’t give for a mouthful of pills to calm his nerves right now.

He braved driving with one hand long enough to snatch the radio microphone from its perch and mashed the button to speak. His mouth opened, but he didn’t know where to begin. How could he put something like what he just witnessed into words? It was difficult enough to piece the scenario together in his mind. This situation had reached a level of depravity that he had not even seen in Iraq.

His shoulder throbbed, and his elbow felt bruised when it bumped the back of the seat. The scuffle he had with Ryn was worse than he thought. That didn’t matter. Those minor wounds would heal. If Ryn’s chomping teeth had found flesh, it would have left a gaping hole that would have lasted the rest of his life. 

The valves on the Bronco rattled faster than he could ever remember. The speedometer almost touched 90 mph, not bad for a 4-Wheel Drive with a set of mud tires. Still, his trusty ride couldn’t take much more of this abuse. A quick look in the rearview mirror gave him enough confidence he was far enough away to stop and collect his thoughts.

When he lifted his foot off the accelerator and applied it to the brake, the burning sensation in his foot ceased. He hadn’t realized how hard he was pushing the pedal down and felt ashamed for losing control over the basics.

Mason brought the Bronco to a smooth stop on the shoulder of the highway facing the bayou. The serenity of the wetlands went unnoticed, his mind wound too tight to drift lazily through the waters. How far was he from Ryn’s place? A mile? Two? His escape had been a blur. It was at least far enough. He placed the vehicle in park and returned the mic to his mouth.

“Ruth, Mason. I’ve got a situation, and I need backup, over.” He wondered if Ruth could detect the desperation in his voice.

Nothing came over the radio, not even static this time. A crow called in the distance as if mocking his predicament.

“Ruth, this is serious. I need backup now, over.” Mason felt eerily alone. Ruth, someone, should have heard him. First Ryn, and now this. It felt like more than a mere coincidence, but he had no idea how the two oddities could be connected.

Frustration had him pawing at his pockets for a smoke. A near-full pack pressed in his chest offered hope. He pulled one from the pack with unsteady fingers and brought it to his lips. His hand shook so badly he had to use his other hand to hold it still enough to light it. A long drag filled his lungs and satisfied his craving. Soon, he would settle down enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

He took another long drag off the cigarette. The nicotine worked to calm his nerves like a Swedish masseuse. He keyed the mic again.

“Ruth, come in. This is an emergency!” At this point, Mason didn’t expect a reply. He didn’t get one. One clue became apparent: Nothing out of the ordinary had happened until Hart and company showed up. Was that the connection? Did Hart have something to do with Ryn going bat shit crazy and the police force unable to hear his call for help? What about Deb? How could she still be alive and move around in her condition? Mason wasn’t sure, but deep down he knew Hart was behind all of this. When he faced the man again, and Mason’s heart raced at the thought, he’d do what he should have done years ago—put a bullet in him.    

The mic bounced off the seat after he tossed it aside. Growing more annoyed with each passing second, he tried his cell phone once more. The phone didn’t connect and still showed no reception bars on the small screen. He pushed the end button two times and tried again. Nothing. The cigarette had just about burned to the filter on the last drag. He was getting nowhere, fast. His only option was to head back to the station and decide what to do from there. Mason shifted the Bronco into drive and slowly pulled onto the road. The truck built up speed and headed down the highway.

It wasn’t long until he approached a house where a man fought to escape the clutches of a woman and a teenaged boy in his front yard. The woman held him by the collar of his shirt, and the boy had latched onto his left ankle.

Has everyone in this town gone fucking nuts?
Mason slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt. He turned onto the man’s property and taking a sharp left, driving the truck down through the yard and skidding to a stop.

The man repeatedly struck the woman with his fists in the face and wrestled to free his ankle from the boy. She maintained her hold and snarled after each blow.

Mason rolled out of the truck and ran toward the skirmish with his pistol leading the way.

The man groaned each time he hit the woman and yelled once when the teen bit his leg.

“This is the Sheriff, back away with your hands up. I’m armed, and I will use force. Hands up!” his words were wasted, just as he expected them to be. He arrived at the man’s side and pulled at the woman’s arm. The man’s shirt tore, and the woman fell back a step or two. Mason kicked her in the stomach, sending her to her ass.

The man had the teen by his hair and fought to keep the blood stained mouth from taking another bite. Mason delivered a kick to the teen’s side, but the boy managed to hang on.

The woman rose from the ground and slammed into Mason. She snapped at him with her teeth like an animal, forcing him to retreat.

The man yelled again as the teen regained the advantage, using the man’s leg to pull him to the ground.

The situation was nearly out of hand. Mason ended the ferocious attack from the woman by shooting her square in the forehead, dropping her instantly.

The man yelled again as the teen dug his teeth into the man’s side and came up with another mouthful of flesh. Mason wasted no time in putting the pistol to the teen’s head and squeezing the trigger, painting the green grass with blood and brain matter.

The teen rolled to his back, a bit of torn flesh hung down the side of his mouth. His skin showed pale under the Louisiana sunshine. A cicada hummed, as if in response to the sudden silence. The man breathed heavily as he lay on his back, sobbing softly.

Mason kneeled by his side. “Good, God. What happened?”

The man fought to check his emotions enough to speak. “I wish, I wish I knew.”

There was no doubt that this was the man’s wife and son. The boy looked like a smaller version of the man. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Not too bad, I think.” The man rolled to his side, and sat upright, pulling his knees to his chest and wiping his nose on his pants.

“Can you talk about it?”

“Not much to tell, really. It was such a shock. It happened so fast. None of it makes any sense.”

“That was your wife and child, wasn’t it?”

“No. No. That was something from hell that attacked me. Something stole their bodies. That was not my wife and son.”

“I understand. Do you feel well enough to stand and walk?”

“Give me a minute.” The man coughed and spat out a wad of phlegm. “My name is, Jay Nichols. That was my wife, Sarah, and my son, Ethan. I work offshore, and I just arrived from two weeks out no more than an hour ago. I opened my door expecting my son to come give me a hug and my wife to give me a kiss. Instead…”

Mason waited; this wasn’t the time to rush the man.

“I opened the door, and found no one in the kitchen, or living room. No one answered when I called. The car was in the driveway, so I knew they were home. I found them in my son’s bedroom. He was lying in bed, like he was sick. Sara, Sara was slumped to the floor by his bedside. They were both dead. You hear? Both dead.”

Mason almost said something, or asked questions that he realized would be of no value. He kept his mouth shut and gave Jay room to finish his story.

“I was frantic when I found them. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I felt for a pulse, pressed my ear to their chests to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. Their skin was cold. It made me shudder. I’ve never touched a dead body before.” Jay looked at his hand and rubbed his fingertips together. “I tried to call 911, but the phone in the house was dead. Even my cell phone wouldn’t work. I didn’t know what to do. I sat on the couch and tried to come up with a plan when I heard a groan come from the bedroom. I didn’t know what to think at first. Gas escaping from a deceased body or something. I heard it again, and it scared me. It, it sounded distant, like an animal.

“Let me tell you, I started shaking, afraid even to move. Then I heard movement. The mattress springs
squeaked
and feet hit the floor. I heard steps, like shuffles. The groans got louder coming down the hall. I managed to stand. I wanted to run, but I had to stay and find out what was going on with my wife and son.

“I saw him first. Ethan. He walked like a toddler toward me, like when he was a baby. It wasn’t his face. The way he looked at me. Sara followed behind. Her face wasn’t hers, either. Her expression… she wanted, she coveted something . . . something from me. It was evil. I could feel it. The evil.”

Jay pulled himself from his trance-like state and turned his head toward Mason. “That’s when I made a break for the door. They gave chase and got a hold of me before I could escape. You know the rest of the story.”

“I, uh, I wish there was something I could say, but I know better. I know what it’s like to lose someone close, someone you love.” Mason had to put a check on his own emotions. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I did, what I had to do earlier. I—”

“I understand. Don’t beat yourself up over it. It was something that needed to be done, and I don’t think I would be man enough to do it. What you did was a blessing in disguise, for me, and for my wife and son too.” Jay stood, the pain from his wounds reflected on his face.

“Those bites need treatment. Can I help you inside the house?”

“I can make it. Just follow, and make sure I don’t pass out.” Jay gingerly stepped toward the house, holding his hand on the bite mark on his side. Once the two were in the living room, Jay said, “You want something to drink?”

“Sure. What’cha got?”

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?”