Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel (4 page)

Chapter 3

The Fallen Ranger

              The alarm sounded five times before Mason slapped it hard enough to stop the shrill beeps. With blurry vision, and his mind swimming with the intoxication from the previous night, he squinted at the red numbers on the machine. 8:05 AM. He was supposed to be at work five minutes ago.

He didn’t care. What was five minutes late or thirty minutes late in the tiny town of Botte? It’s not like anything of importance had happened in this town in quite a while, and Mason loved it.

Mason received an honorable discharge from the military once he returned to the States. He had rambled to anyone who would listen about how his group was set up. He told them that his two friends had died for nothing, but the hearing committee dismissed the ramblings as the nonsensical rants of a man suffering from a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, and that had been it. Here are your papers, sir. Thank you for serving our country. Don’t let the door hit your ass too hard on the way out.

That door had hit him particularly hard. Mason tried his best to return to a normal job in New Orleans as a deputy sheriff, but after an incident where he snapped and beat an inmate nearly to death, he was relieved of duty. His superior took pity on the soldier, and, instead of throwing him into a cell, made a few calls. The sheriff found a job opening in the small town of Botte and recommended Mason for the job. The sheriff had figured the small, quaint town, would be perfect for the scarred warrior to nurture his internal injuries.

Mason accepted the position, but in reality, he had no choice. Things had come to a stalemate in New Orleans, including his relationship with Vicky Dupuis, his girlfriend, and their child, Kenneth. Too many times, Mason would howl in the night, blindly stampeding through the house—smashing mirrors and glass, anything that showed his reflection. He simply couldn’t look at himself without seeing the pawn that had gotten his friends killed. He remembered attending their separate funerals and how the eyes of their grieving family members burned into him. Those eyes screamed, ‘Why you? Why did you live and not him?’ Mason wrestled with the same questions every day.

On the day he received the message from his boss that he would be relocated to Botte, he came home to a note Vicky had left on the kitchen table. It said that she had taken their child and wouldn’t be coming back. Mason scanned the note for any detail of where she might have gone, but there was none. He debated calling the police before realizing he was the police. He picked up the phone to make a call to Vicky’s mother, but decided to set the receiver back down. Maybe it was better this way. Mason’s son wouldn’t remember him as being such a monster and could live a better life away from him.

He never called anyone, and he didn’t try to find them. Mason figured this was the fresh start he needed to save his life and turn things around, and to one day, have a meaningful impact on his son’s life. The girlfriend he could care less about. Floozy cocktail waitresses at casinos tend not to make the best partners. She was replaceable. His son was not. One day, when he straightened himself out, Mason would find them again and prove he had made the right choices.

Mason had packed up a tiny U-Haul and moved to Botte, Louisiana. He jumped into his new job with a passion that went out as quickly as it had ignited. There was nothing to do and no crimes of any significance to worry with. It was boring, and as much as he thought peace and quiet was what he needed, Mason was wrong. His staff was small, a handful of deputies, and one foul-mouthed receptionist that amused him, because she swore worse than he did and was fifty years his senior. He had called his boss back in New Orleans and begged him to reconsider. His boss had coldly informed him that the prisoner he had beaten died, and it would be best if Mason never returned. The inmate had been some low-level pimp and drug dealer, so the corrupt New Orleans police had no problem pinning the murder on another inmate who was locked up for life anyway. Mason didn’t care that the man had died, and in fact, he was somewhat pleased with himself that the piece of walking trash wouldn’t hurt another person again. This realization that he didn’t care, scared him a bit. He had hung up with the sheriff, thanking him again for the opportunity, and resumed his job as sheriff of Botte.

Mason ran a hand through his greasy, black hair. He would need a shower before heading into work. The stale odor of cigarettes and sweet aroma of whisky perfumed the room. It became more pronounced as the humidity rose in the bathroom, the hot shower working wonders on his aching body. The robust scent of sandalwood and vanilla soap quickly replaced it. He exited the shower and stared at the reflection in the mirror. He was a wreck. Black, stubbly hairs dotted his face, steely blue eyes dull and bloodshot. He applied some drops to them to try to tone down the redness. He needed coffee. The small bottle of whisky he polished off, nestled atop the toilet as he relieved himself, wasn’t enough to shift his motor into high gear. A quick shave revealed skin littered with small scars around his lips and eyes. Finally, Mason applied minty toothpaste that promised to whiten his teeth in thirty days to help chase away the rat that died in his mouth.

Once in the kitchen, small cockroaches and silverfish scattered as he kicked aside empty beer cans and fast food wrappers strewn about the floor. He opened the cabinet and removed the small container of coffee grinds, measuring enough for a couple of large cups. He grabbed the gallon jug of water next to the machine and poured in the right amount. Some townspeople loved Botte’s tap water, for a reason Mason couldn’t understand. To him it tasted like sulphur, or rotten eggs, but the locals didn’t seem to notice. He refused to drink it, or anything made with it, he found it ruined the taste of everything it touched. The smell of coffee percolating into the pot began temporarily to replace the smell of grime infused into the house.

He sipped the coffee, slowly letting the hot liquid travel down his throat and into his stomach. The rush of heat felt good. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the bleak offerings. A pack of lunchmeat that sprouted a fungal garden was next to a carton of eggs and a twelve-pack of beer. The expiration date on the eggs told him they were still good for another week. He looked around the kitchen noticing his frying pan was still dirty in the sink, where it had been for longer than he could remember. Small dots of rust peppered the surface.
Fuck it
, he thought.
If Stallone can do it, so can I
. He cracked an egg on the counter and opened it over his waiting mouth. The egg sloshed to the back of his throat, going down with little effort. It happened so fast that he didn’t even taste it. Not very satisfying. He removed a beer from the fridge and poured the contents into one of the few clean glasses. He cracked three eggs into the glass and drank it down.
Not bad
.
Tastes like beer
.

With breakfast finished, Mason trudged back to his dirty bedroom and stumbled over a pair of work boots. He kicked a pile of clothes out of the way and removed his uniform from the closet. It was standard police issue blues, and he slipped it on. The pants were starting to feel a little snug, as if the years of fast food and drinking had started to catch up to him, though he was still slender and had good muscle tone, the lucky winner of genetic lottery. He gave himself one final look-over in the bathroom mirror. A little aftershave balm to his face and a spritz of cologne added another cover to hide behind. He cleaned up well for a man who was on the verge of giving up.

Magazines, clothes, and a pair of panties—the owner he could not remember—called themselves to his attention, as he snapped on his duty belt holstering his police issued 9mm. He’d clean up when he got home, he said to himself. He said the same thing every day, and had yet to follow through with the promise. The blades on the box fan in the corner slowed to a stop at the flick of a switch, leaving the humid, swampy air stagnant as Mason closed and locked his door.

The brutal Louisiana sun beat down. His shirt instantly felt damp and clung to his skin. Botte appeared to have only two seasons: half a month of bitter cold, and 11 and a half months of intense heat. He hated it, and once inside his old black Bronco, Mason cranked the AC and lowered the windows to let the cold air push out the hot from the truck.

His house was situated just outside downtown Botte, and the drive offered a picturesque view of the bayou. Tall cypress trees jutted out of the water, their crooked knees serving as perches for swamp birds and raccoons. Occasionally, Mason would spot an alligator sunning itself on the bank as he drove. He didn’t see any today. Botte didn’t contain any traditional neighborhoods, and most dwellings were half a mile apart, allowing for plenty of privacy. Past downtown, more homes were nestled on the bayou side of the interstate and resembled fishing camps more than traditional houses. Quite a few of the older residents lived down that way, either retired fisherman, or retired city folks who wanted a place to just get away from it all, and live out the rest of their days in peace. They would get that in Botte. The town was as exciting as going to church, and to Mason that seemed dreadful.

The sign announcing Downtown Botte loomed ahead. A few cars passed him, hauling fishing boats and offering friendly waves. He waved back. The residents had taken to him quickly, and Mason had chalked that up to the hospitable Southern attitude that seemed to be born into those from the South. His money was no good at the local diner, though he always made sure to take care of the waitress, and he was given little perks at the pharmacy and small grocery store. The kind old man who owned the place, never once questioned the copious amounts of pain pill prescriptions that Mason turned into him.

He entered the town. His eyes scanned the streets for anything out of place, but all was quiet. It was always so damn quiet. Residents strolled the streets, window-shopping and talking amongst themselves. Several patrons relaxed at a small coffee shop, reading the morning paper, and enjoying iced tea on a hot day. Mason was 40 minutes late for work, but his cell phone hadn’t rung once, and he figured no one would notice anyway. His deputies knew what to do and had their daily routes to patrol. He approached the back gate and punched in a code to open it. The gate slowly slid open, and he pulled the Bronco in, parking it in the spot reserved for Botte’s sheriff. The gate closed behind him with a metallic whine. He spotted Ruth’s car. The potty-mouth receptionist was here. He also noticed two of the three squad cars missing. The prison transport van hid in the shade of a tree. It was very rare that they had to use it. Only once was it needed to help transport a man who was en route to Paradis, but that had been due to the New Orleans prison van breaking down near Botte.

He walked through the steel front door and entered the police station. He smiled as the crisp, cool air greeted him. Passing down a hall, he turned right, and came up to the receptionist desk. Beyond that, were the offices and a small break room. Ruth was busy typing on the computer and didn’t raise her head when Mason approached.

“Mornin’, Ruth.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I think you may be in the wrong place. The sheriff normally comes in around 8 o’clock, and here we are pushing on 9 o’clock. I know our sheriff would never be late for his civic duties.”

“You got me, Ruth. I slept a little past the alarm this morning.”

“I’ll give you just one more chance, and then I might have to lock you up.” Ruth smiled and looked at herself in the small mirror on her desk, fixing her white perm, which Mason always suspected was a wig. She was a tiny woman, with bright red lips from wearing too much lipstick, and a set of yellow teeth from years of coffee and cigarettes.

“I have anything on the agenda today?”

“As a matter of fact, you do. The mayor called and wants to come in around noon for a meeting. Not sure what that’s about. He wouldn’t say.”

“Great,” Mason said, visibly annoyed.

“Other than that, there are a few reports on your desk that need a signature. Deputy Ricks and Sheraton are out on patrol. Deputy Caldwell is in his office. He caught some kid poaching crab traps and saved the poor idiot before the owner could shoot him. Kid’s been sent home, but there’s that damn paperwork.”

“Tell me about it. Well, give me a holler before you go to lunch. May want you to grab me something.”

“Will do, sweetie.” Ruth smiled, and Mason went on his way.

He passed by two empty offices on the way to his own. The third was occupied by Troy Caldwell, hunched over his desk, furiously writing a report.

“Mornin’, Troy. I see you are protecting the good citizens of Botte from poachers.”

“Huh, tell me about it.” Troy tossed the pen on his desk.

Mason was surprised Troy could even grip the pen. His hands were huge, as was the rest of his body. He was a gentle giant though, having grown up in a nearby parish. Becoming a police officer shortly after graduating high school seemed like a matter of course. His shoulders were broad and strong, but his heart was in the right place. He was the closest thing to a friend Mason had.

“One of these days, those stupid kids are going to mess with the wrong fisherman and get killed. What’s worse, is these folks thinking they can just take the law in their own hands. I’m sorry, but I’m going to scream if I have to explain to another one of these dumb fucks why they will go to jail for murder if they shoot someone taking crabs out their traps. Over fucking crabs! Then I get stuck with the paperwork.”