Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel (10 page)

Ryn stumbled to a wall of shelves and grabbed a handful of rags. His mind reeled as he applied pressure to the bite and fought to accept reality. Two men had just died by his hand. It didn’t matter that they were criminals, guilty of God knows what. They were still human beings. What on Earth had turned them into raw, flesh-eating monsters? PCP? Bath salts like he saw on the news? Ryn reminded himself that the cause didn’t matter. There was no way he could cover this up.

A dog barked in the distance, and he assumed a manhunt was already underway. Ryn panicked. Surely, the cops would search his house and find his stash of marijuana and cocaine. That’s it. His life was over. He would probably be sentenced to a hundred years for killing those prisoners, because the courts would find a way to tie it in with a drug charge.

The dog barked again. Ryn collected himself enough to realize it was the familiar bay of his neighbor’s hound dog nearly half mile down the road. Maybe he had a chance.

The rags were completely saturated with blood. He tore open a sack of flour he used to stop the bleeding on his hogs after castrating them, and patted handfuls of the powder on the wounds. After that, he wrapped a rag around his arm and used his teeth and free hand to tie the knot.

Feeling more under control, he rushed back to the house.

Once inside the kitchen, he screamed, “Deb! Where are you?”

Her voice called from down the hall. “Ryn! Ryn are you okay? I heard gunshots!”

“Get your ass in here right now. I’m hurt!”

Deb bounded down the hall and stopped at the kitchen entrance. “Ryn! What happened?” Both hands went to her mouth as she cringed.

Ryn stood dirty and disheveled. The flour cover
e
d his head and left side of his face. The rag on his arm succeeded in keeping his bleeding in check. “It’s bad, Deb. Really bad. We’re fuckity-fucked-fucked-fucked.”

“What’d you do?”

“Two prisoners from Paradis were eating our chickens.”

“Eating chickens?”

“Yeah. Eating them raw. Then, they attacked me. I had no choice but to shoot them. They almost killed me.”

“Why didn’t you just run back inside? We could have called the cops.”

“I couldn’t get away. They had me. Hell, they tried to eat me!”

“What are we going to do? You can’t hide from this.” Deb’s brow lifted. “The coke. The grass. You’ve got to get rid of that stuff before the cops get here.”

“Calm down, just calm down. Let me think a minute.” Ryn pulled a chair away from the table and plopped down his weary ass. “Beer. Get me a beer. I’m so thirsty.”

Deb darted to the fridge and retrieved a cold Miller Lite.

Ryn popped the top and chugged down three swallows. “I’m in no condition to deal with this shit now. We wait till morning, and I’ll come up with something.” His chin drooped to his chest, and he closed his eyes. “I feel like a double shit sandwich. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. You got to do something for me. Take the stash, the coke is in the closet in a garbage bag, and bring it to Jimmy’s camp. There’s a storage box outside he keeps gas in. Take my keys. The red colored one opens the box. I leave his weekly stash in there if he’s not home when I deliver. Put the dope in there and come home.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll say those prisoners attacked me last night and I passed out from loss of blood. We’ll say you pulled double shift or something, and when you came home, you found me like this. You can call an ambulance in the morning and we’ll play the story out from there.”

Deb stared blankly at the wall.

“Deb? You got it?”

“Yeah, sure. It might work. I don’t know what else to do. Let’s get you cleaned up so you can get in bed.”

Deb helped Ryn to the bathroom, where she undressed him and sat him in the tub. She ran the water until it was slightly warm and positioned the handheld showerhead to wash him down. “Oh, my God, there’s teeth marks on your forehead.”

“That thing almost got me. I had one bullet left, but I got him.”

Crimson mixed with the dirty water and flowed down the drain. Ryn rested with his eyes closed and then removed the rag from around his arm. “Clean this up, too.”

“Ew, that looks nasty. Sit up and hold it over the drain so it won’t get all over you.”

Ryn pulled himself up and leaned his arm over the drain.

“Does it hurt?”

“It feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t feel the water hitting it.”

“That’s weird,” Deb said, turning the water off after washing the wound. She handed him a towel. “Dry your arm with this. I’ll get some bandages.”

Ryn dried off his arm and was surprised that it wasn’t bleeding. He stepped out of the tub and dried off with another towel.

Deb returned to the bathroom. “Sit on the toilet, and I’ll fix you up.”

Ryn sat, and Deb went to work applying antibiotic ointment, adhesive bandages, and sterile pads placed on his cheek and arm, which she held in place by wrapping them in gauze. “There. It’s not the best job in the world, but it’ll hold them on there. You look like a mummy.”

Deb helped Ryn put on underwear before he flopped onto the unmade bed. She followed the plan and drove the hour and a half round trip to their friend Jimmy’s camp, securing the dope. When she arrived back home, Ryn was still in bed, snoring peacefully in his sleep. She undressed and lay next to him. Deb opened a bottle of liquid codeine on the nightstand and took a couple of swigs. She then prayed for a better tomorrow.

***

Deb woke with a swirl of thoughts tumbling through her mind. At first, she didn’t know where she was. Bright sunlight shone through a crack in the curtains, painting a large column across the wall. She pushed up from the bed and leaned on an elbow until her senses returned. The digital numbers on the clock read 12:30.

Oh, fuck. I overslept.
She kicked the covers off and sat on the side of the bed. Ryn lay on his side facing the opposite way. The plan Ryn had laid out wouldn’t work now. Two men were dead in the barn, and they had no story to hide behind.

She reached over and touched Ryn on the arm. “Ryn, Ryn, wake up. It’s after noon.”

Ryn didn’t move. In fact, she couldn’t hear him breathing. An unusual smell in the house brought a wave of panic. “Ryn! Wake up! Ryn!” She shook his shoulder and continued to call his name, but it was useless.

Deb bounded out of bed tossing the covers and rushed to Ryn’s side. His eyes were closed, and his skin cool to the touch. Deb felt despair grab and throw her into a bottomless pit. Even though life with Ryn was on a downward spiral, she still loved him. When he would smile with that boyish grin, she would melt inside. There was a deep emotional connection the two shared that couldn’t be put into words.

The scene felt surreal. Deb’s mind took her to her work and the emotional wall she’d built up over the years of seeing and handling dead people. This wasn’t some old man who succumbed to cancer in the last years of his life. This was her Ryn, taken too soon, and for no good reason. In seconds, her professional mind crumbled. All that was left was to caress the cold, firm hand of someone she’d loved more than life itself.

Tears streamed down her face. She would never see him smile again. Deb pulled the sheet over Ryn’s bandaged face and kissed him on the forehead. “Good bye . . .” Deb stepped back and said a little prayer.

Ryn suddenly threw back the sheets and sprang into a sitting position. Deb stumbled backward and hit the wall, her mouth wide, words caught in her throat. The eyes of a dead man looked back with a stare so cold she began to shiver uncontrollably. Ryn rose to his feet, and forced an unsteady foot forward, his first step as an undead.

Deb gasped.

The zombie took its next shaky step and raised its arms. Deb managed a shriek and lifted both hands to stop her dead husband as he crashed into her.

Blood splattered against the wall from a series of gashes rent within her soft flesh, torn by her zombie spouse’s teeth. He threw her on the bed and feasted voraciously. Deb wailed in pain, screamed in horror, as the man she loved ate her alive.

The cries slowly faded to whimpers until the expression on Deb’s face relaxed and softened, peace brought by death.

Chapter 7

In Dreams

Hart was on Mason’s mind the entire evening, and no amount of whiskey could erase the reoccurring nightmares from his past. He tried to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he would see Sanderson and Webb staring back at him. Their frozen expressions were cold, dead, and cruel.

He awoke several times, chugging whiskey from the bottle like a frat boy on his first night in the house, but no matter how much he drank, the dreams refused to fade. He passed out around two in the morning, his sleep restless. In his dreams, Scarface was back, torturing him, while Hart looked on, nodding his approval. He screamed himself awake more than once that night. His sheets were sticky with sweat and twisted in his white-knuckle grip.

Mason dozed off just as the morning sun started to break the horizon. He had fallen into a deep sleep when a knock on his door forced his eyes to shoot open.
Did I dream that?
He waited, a few seconds ticked by. The knock sounded again, louder. 

“Just a minute!” Mason swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, teetering unsteadily.

His head pounded, and his throat was so dry he thought it might crack. Almost dry enough to drink the putrid tap water, but not quite. Mason chose to swig from the water jug on the counter instead. He opened the front door, the sun’s rays burned into his eyes. He squinted, and made out Troy’s large silhouette.

“Hey, Sheriff. Real sorry to bother you on your day off,” Troy said, pausing to take a sip of bottled water he had brought with him, “but, we are in bit of a predicament, and I couldn’t get in touch with you by phone.”

“What time is it anyway?”

“Almost eleven.”

“I feel like crap,” Mason said, rubbing his face with his hands. “Well, come on in, and tell me what’s going on.”

Troy entered, almost tripping over a pair of jeans by the doorway. He took a seat next to a crumpled pizza box and a few dented beer cans. Mason plopped down on a tattered chair, and rocked back and forth. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the table and offered it to Troy, who refused. Mason unloaded the contents down his throat.

“So, I have news of various degrees of importance. What do you want first?”

“Go easy on me, Troy. Start off with the less important stuff.”

“I had to send Sheraton home. He was sick as a dog and looked terrible. His eyes were cloudy, and he kept coughing and hacking. I don’t need him getting everyone sick, especially an old woman like Ruth.”

“No biggie. Days are slow around here anyway. He can take some time to recuperate.”

“Well, the next item of business is Ryn Fouchon. He didn’t show up yesterday to pay his fine for the DWI arrest from a few days back.”

“So? Go haul his ass in.”

“That’s where I’m running into a problem. We are short two people with you being off. Would you mind taking a ride down his way and see what’s going on? The guy’s a drunk idiot, and probably some low level drug pusher, but he’s always been quick to pay his fines.”

Mason sighed.
So much for a day off
. “Yeah, I suppose I can do that. I’m going to grab a bite to eat before I do anything though.”

“There’s one more thing, and this one is a bit of a doozy. I was informed this morning that the military has closed off the entrance to the town from the main highway.”

“On whose authority?” Mason felt himself getting angry.

“Beats me. The president? The governor? The mayor? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Mason titled the empty bottle of whiskey to his mouth, hopeful a soothing drop would make its way down. None came. The upset feelings he had when he’d met Hart returned. The shaky hands, the pounding headache, and the lightning rush of adrenaline.
That son of a bitch has some explaining to do
. 

“Anyway, Sheriff, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I was on my way home to meet up with Skylar for lunch. She wants to show me some new furniture in some catalogue she picked up from the grocery store. I’d rather be hauling in that punk, Ryn Fouchon.”

“Hey, that reminds me. You see those jeans on the floor?”

“These things?” Troy held up a rumpled pair of pants as if he were handling a dirty diaper.

“Yeah, throw them over.” Mason caught the pants sent flying his way.

He rummaged through the pockets and produced a crumpled envelope. Troy’s eyes widened as Mason counted off ten bills and held them out for Troy to take. Troy looked awestruck.

  “Well, it ain’t going to bite you, Troy. Take it. Consider it a bonus from Uncle Sam.”

“I don’t understand.” Troy counted the money once, and then again.

“Money from the U. S. Army, so they can do what they want. Go buy that dresser, Troy. Make Sky happy.”

“Hell, this might just get me laid as well!”

“One of us has to, and it sure as hell isn’t me at the moment.”

“Speaking of, I heard you talk about grabbing something to eat before checking on Ryn. You wouldn’t be hoping to run into a certain waitress that we both know?” Troy smiled wide.

Mason returned it, even though he felt like run-over dog shit. “Yeah, as soon as you stop bugging me, I plan on heading to the diner—maybe see if Rosella would like to see a movie or something.”

“That’s awesome. Sky and I are always looking for couples to do stuff with. Not many around here that don’t eat dinner past 5:00 PM.”

“Well, let me ask her out first. We can talk about group dating if all goes well. Now, go get you some lunch. I need to clean up and get moving. Especially since my day off now includes me working.”

The two men shook hands. Troy saw himself to the door. Mason didn’t waste time hopping in the shower and cleaning up. He didn’t want to reek like an empty liquor bottle and stale cigarettes when he asked Rosella out. He thought about that and smiled. It felt like high school again with that nervous feeling of butterflies dancing in his stomach. The inspiration to pick up around the house struck him out of nowhere. After exiting the shower and drying off, he retrieved a black garbage bag and began throwing away bits of trash and empty cans. He filled two bags before tossing them out the back door. The place instantly looked better.

He threw on a pair of clean jeans and black polo shirt with a gold fleur-de-lis on the left breast. He placed his police blues top over the polo shirt, figuring it best to be dressed as an officer when conducting police business. He combed his hair, spritzed a little cologne, and was out the door. He rehearsed his pickup line as he drove into town.

* * *

Mason parked in his reserved spot in front of the police station and studied the diner across the street before getting out of the vehicle. The Cast Net Diner was a staple in Botte, known for pancakes the size of a person’s face and a sign that said they brewed their coffee only with Kentwood bottled water. Mason was thankful for that. He walked across the street, checking both ways of course, and headed up the stairs to the main entrance. With each step, his heart sped up just a bit.

He entered The Cast Net, and his nose filled with the smells of the daily lunch special, which by the look of it was chicken soup or seafood gumbo.
Too hot for soup
, he thought as his eyes scanned the small dining area.

“Hey, Sheriff. Looking for somebody?”

Mason turned and stared into the eyes of Rosella Green. She smiled at him, a mouth full of straight white teeth that were complemented perfectly by her caramel colored skin. She was one of the only few Creoles who lived in the area, and she was as pretty a woman as they come. Her hair was jet black and tied neatly in a bun. Tiny, renegade locks caressed her angelic face. Her green eyes were bright emeralds glimmering against a white backdrop. She wore a black dress shirt that showed off her full breasts and a white skirt that revealed a pair of toned legs.

“I. . . yeah. I was looking to get some lunch.”

“Oh, well then, come sit in my section. I’ll take care of you.” She led him to a small booth in the corner and handed him a menu. “Something to drink?”

“Unsweet tea if you got it, and don’t use that nasty water to make it.”

“Don’t worry. We use bottled water for tea as well. I’ll be right back.”

“Great,” he said, choking on the word and blushing at the thought of what that sounded like.

Rosella took her time bringing him his tea, and when she returned, he felt as if he were going to blurt out his true intentions for coming to the diner. Mason tried to play it cool, but felt his fidgeting and nervous twitches were revealing too much.

“So what can I get you today? The chicken soup is pretty good. There have been a few people complaining about not feeling well. I guess something is going around.”

“No thanks, I think I’ll stick with a club sandwich. Wheat bread, please.”

Rosella looked disappointed. Mason was starting to get nervous, unsure of what to say next.

“Is there anything else you would like?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’ll just say, Ruth was in here the other day, and she said there was something you wanted to ask me. I figured it had to be important. I’m not busted, am I?” She laughed, and her voice sounded magical.

“No, nothing like that—
that damn Ruth!
—I wanted to see if maybe you’d like to do something, sometime. . . with me, somewhere. Like maybe a movie in town or something.”

“Why, Mr. Sheriff, are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes, I believe I am.” Mason smiled.

“I’d love to. I have to close up tonight, but I’m off tomorrow. Maybe we can hang out and do something fun.”

“I’d like that,” Mason said. It had been a while since he’d had any fun.

She giggled and turned around to place his order. Her hand lightly touched his shoulder as she walked away. He felt like a million bucks. She brought his food, and they made small talk—nothing groundbreaking—just what was going on in their lives at the moment. She asked about any recent cool police stories. He had none. He asked if she was looking forward to returning to teaching when the summer was over. She wasn’t. At the end of the meal, she refused the tip he left her. Mason had protested, but Rosella would hear nothing of it.

“How about you make me dinner instead,” Rosella said, smiling.

“I guess I can do that. You have a nice evening, Rose. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it, Mason. I’ll call you later and tell you what time you can come get me.”

Mason exited the diner with his head spinning and a winning smile plastered across his face. Good thing he wore his heavy boots, because the way he felt he may lift off the ground at any moment.
Now, I just have to deal with Fouchon, and then I can think about tomorrow
. Things were finally working out for him, and he cranked the radio loud, singing to an 80’s glam band as he sped down the highway, and in the direction of where Ryn and Deb Fouchon lived.

* * *

The Bronco’s tires kicked up small white shells as Mason came to an abrupt stop outside of Ryn’s house. The small, cottage-style home, which bordered the slow moving bayou, was in the opposite direction of where Mason lived. He actually had to pass through downtown Botte to reach it. Standing in front of the house, Mason shook his head. The lawn was littered with patches of dead grass and old car parts, and an overflowing trash can was put out by the curb. A beat-up gray car and a dirty white van set in the driveway.

At least Ryn’s home
, he thought, walking up the creaking wooden stairs to the front porch. The screen door had seen better days as all the wire mesh had rotten long ago. He lightly knocked on the door.

“Ryn? Deb?” Mason called, and waited a few seconds. There was no response. He knocked again, this time applying more force.

“Ryn! I know you’re in there. This is the sheriff. I came to find out why you didn’t pay your fine yesterday.”

Again, no response. Mason sighed, and stepped back. A chicken rounded the side of the house and pecked along the ground. Mason couldn’t see through the front windows and decided it best to check the perimeter of the house first. As he stepped off the porch, something on the chicken caught his eye. The chicken had reddish brown splatter on its body and had pieces of stringy flesh on its back.
Fish guts? What is that?
The chicken ran away when he bent down for a closer look. He continued to the backyard, where more chickens freely roamed. A few had the same material splattered over them. One looked like its beak was covered in blood.

Looking up from the fowl, he saw the bodies.

Mason drew his pistol and scanned the backyard more intently. The barn was nearby, and a number of chickens clucked incessantly from within it. He could just barely make out a pair of sneakers, like the kind the inmates wore at Paradis, sticking out of the entrance. The heels were grounded and the toes pointed up. There was an inmate napping in the barn?        

Mason held the 9mm firmly with both hands and jogged to the barn, in a crouched position. He couldn’t imagine what in the
hell
was going on.