Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel (12 page)

“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 Rosella 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.

“Welcome to Cast Net. Table for one?”

Rosella saw the man stare at Ester, and then the unreal happened. The man let out a hellish moan and jumped on the chubby waitress. Rosella heard Ester’s screams as the man stripped away flesh from her face with his teeth. Skin ripped away, sounding like torn wet fabric.

She rushed to pull the man off, when another one of the patrons flung her out the way, and grabbed the man around his neck. The crazed man bit down on the patron’s forearm, removing a large chunk of meat. The patron screamed, and pulled his arm away. The attacker pounced on him and began chewing on the Good Samaritan’s throat.

Screams filled the diner, and one of the waitresses grabbed the phone and frantically dialed for the police. The waitress looked at the phone in disbelief and tried again.

“What’s wrong?” Rosella said, climbing back behind the counter.

“It’s not working,” Florence said. “The phones still aren’t working, and that man is blocking the door.”

Just then, one of the women who had been eating alone, stood and staggered toward Florence. Rosella saw the vacant expression on the woman’s face and knew something wasn’t right. She went to warn Florence, but it was too late. The woman pounced on the waitress like a jungle cat attacking an unsuspecting deer. The woman dragged Florence to the ground and fed savagely. 

Rosella screamed and backed away. The bell to the diner chimed again, and again, until it fell silent. Rosella peered over the counter and saw more people flooding in. They snarled with twisted expressions and mouths opened wide, exposing teeth. They looked for prey, and when they found it, they attacked. Screams became gurgled chokes. Plates crashing and flatware banging to the floor added to the chaos.

Rosella crawled away, spotting the swinging double doors to the kitchen. As long as she could put a little distance between herself and the mob of crazy people, she could think what her next move should be. She made her way to the doors and pushed them open, just enough for her slender body to fit through. The kitchen was vacant, the cook missing, and Rosella headed toward the oven range.

She screamed when the double doors exploded open, and the woman who had attacked Florence shambled after her. Rosella pushed away, backing up as fast as she could on the floor, and then sprang to her feet. The woman pursued, and Rosella saw strips of meat hanging from the woman’s broken teeth. Patches of the woman’s hair were missing, as if ripped out. A cracked moan escaped the monster’s lips as it moved closer to Rosella. She felt her back hit the stove and knew she was trapped. The zombie came closer. Rosella was on the verge of hysterics. She grabbed a small pot on the stove and swung it, catching the zombie in the jaw, and sending two of its teeth to the ground. It had no effect. She hit it again, but the woman didn’t relent. Scattered on the ground, perhaps left by the cook as he fled the diner, a metal meat tenderizer glistened from the overhead lights. Rosella grabbed it, and with a warrior’s cry, smashed it into the head of the woman. The woman’s face hit the tile with a sick plop. Rosella struck her again, not stopping until the top of the zombie’s head was reduced to bloody pulp, and its body stopped moving.

She didn’t have time to reflect on her kill. Rosella rose from her knees, meat tenderizer in hand, and made her way to the back delivery area. The walk-in cooler was an option, but it was so cold that Rosella thought she would freeze to death before someone would find her. It also didn’t lock, so there was no way to make it secure. She ran to the back door used for deliveries. It was locked, and the only way to open it was with a key that she did not have. The diner owner had the key, and he was always present when deliveries were made. Rosella kicked at the door, but it didn’t budge.

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed her. One clamped over her mouth, and the other around her neck. She screamed, but the sound was muffled. She was being dragged toward the utility closet, and though she struggled to fight, she was powerless against her attacker. Rosella waived the meat tenderizer like a mad woman. She was done for, and she knew she was seconds away of knowing the pain of having her flesh ripped off. Her attacker shut the closet door once she was inside, and darkness engulfed them. She felt the grip loosen and knew this was her only chance. Spinning around, she kneed the person in the groin, and readied the tenderizer, for what she planned to be a death blow.

“Jesus, Rose. Stop!”

“Barry?” Rosella lowered the tenderizer and stared at the cook, her eyes adjusting to the gloom.

He was hunched over, holding his groin and breathing in a raspy wheeze. Rosella figured the sudden blow had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yes,” he said, panting, “it’s me.”

“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were one of them.”

“I’m sorry, but I saw you, and I knew I had to get you in here as quietly as I could.”

Rosella lowered the tenderizer and crumpled to the ground. Across from her, Barry sat, and turned on a flashlight. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide. He was a young man, fresh out of high school. He had hearing issues from playing his iPod way too loud.

“Barry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you were attacking me.”

“I don’t even know what’s going on, Rose. One minute I’m flipping eggs, and the next people are running in here and attacking each other. I recognized those people. Those are
our
people.” Tears streamed down the cook’s eyes.

“I don’t know what to say. I just killed a woman. If I hadn’t, she was going to kill me. Something bad happened...”

“It’s all that synthetic weed and shit. People getting high, trying to beat the drug tests. Problem is that shit fucks you up more than the real stuff!”

A loud bang, sounding like a gunshot, made the two to jump. It was followed by a long scream that was abruptly cut off. Barry stood and grabbed the chair that was in the back of the closet. He wedged it under the door handle.

“I don’t know what to do. We have some bottled water in here, so we are safe to hide out for a little while. If we stay quiet, then no one should bother us.”

“I guess,” Rosella said. “How long do you think that will be?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I have my cell phone, but the damn thing has no signal. Maybe we can wait for a while and then go for help? Maybe the cops will come. Where are they when you need them, huh?”

Rosella shook her head and cracked open a bottle of water, taking a small sip. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

“I don’t think it will ever be okay again,” Barry said, sighing.

Rosella knew he was probably right. The two huddled together, moving as far away from the door as they could. The flashlight jumped with each bang and scream. Rosella prayed silently and hoped that the next noise wasn’t the sound of fists slamming on the closet door.