Bad enough that we hadn’t slept in a while. We couldn’t allow ourselves to get weak from thirst and hunger as well.
North of the national forest, I finally caught Highway 28, which, if unimpeded, would lead us northeast to the cozy town of Hazlehurst, where I hoped we could connect to I-55. Over the years, Clare and I had stopped there often on our travels between New Orleans and northern Michigan.
With less than four thousand residents—who hopefully hadn’t all morphed into zombies by now—Hazlehurst wasn’t a big place. But it offered enough restaurants, gas stations, and stores to make for a helpful pit stop on lengthy road trips through southern Mississippi.
“I’d like to stop in Hazlehurst,” I abruptly announced.
“Why?” Clare asked. “Something wrong?”
“Wait,” George said from the dining nook. “Think that’s a good idea?”
Obviously, both women fretted that we’d run into more trouble. Maybe worse than our varied scrapes in Homochitto. Given our luck thus far, I couldn’t really blame them.
“I know stopping is always a risk, but I’d like to get some more gas before we go any further.”
“Are we low?” George asked, stepping behind my seat and peering at the dashboard.
“Not yet,” I admitted, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror, “but it might be tough to find any up north. I’d rather stock up down here, if possible.”
George frowned, no doubt recalling the last time we’d stopped—when she’d nearly met her end, thanks to the upper half of a zombified gymnast. “Yeah, but—”
“Look, if we top off the gas tank and fill the black-water one, I think we could avoid stopping for a while.”
“What’s a black-water tank?” Casey asked.
“That toilet in the back,” I explained, “would usually be attached to a sewage tank that I’d have to empty at some point. While getting the van ready for the road, I sanitized and converted it into a spare gas tank. Same with the gray-water one. In fact, between the three tanks, we can carry over sixty gallons of gas.”
And luckily, I’d already filled the gray-water tank back in New Orleans.
Casey’s brow furrowed in confusion. “So, wait, what’s the toilet hooked up to?”
George smiled, resuming her seat at the table. “I think he’s got it set up like the one at your dad’s old fishing camp.”
Fishing camps in southern Louisiana, at least those only accessible via boat, often dumped their waste directly into the Gulf of Mexico. Not exactly sanitary or legal, but if it was good enough for the fish, nutria, waterfowl, and alligators, then it was certainly good enough for me.
While George and Casey chatted about better times at the old fishing camp, the wrinkles on Clare’s forehead only deepened.
“Don’t you think all the gas will be out? We haven’t seen a functioning station this whole trip.”
“Guess we’ll just have to see. If none of the pumps are working in Hazlehurst, then we’ll try siphoning some gas from any abandoned vehicles we spot.”
“That definitely doesn’t sound smart. It’s still dark out.”
Sunrise was only a couple hours away, but honestly, I’d hoped to be parked in a safe place by then, snoozing away the day—and possibly the night.
“I know, but desperate times and all…” I smiled encouragingly. “We’ll have to get gas at some point. We can’t make it all the way to Michigan with what we have. And trying to find some in a small town in southern Mississippi will likely be easier than in a more populated place.”
Her forehead remained crinkled with skepticism and concern, but she said nothing in response.
“I know you’re worried. I am, too. But I’d rather stock up now than risk running out in the middle of nowhere.”
After a few pensive seconds, she reluctantly nodded. George and Casey agreed to give it a shot as well.
We all knew that, in a zombie apocalypse, nothing was risk-free. But after everything we’d experienced—and lost—over the past few days, I could understand my companions’ reluctance to emerge from the van before it seemed absolutely necessary.
Hell, I wasn’t too thrilled about it either.
Chapter
21
“I will NOT calm down! This is the second time I’ve been hit with a severed head and I DON’T LIKE IT!” – Kelly Scott, Lake Placid (1999)
Eventually, we reached the small community of Hazlehurst, and thanks to the ever-helpful moonlight plus some distant flames lighting up the night sky, we easily spotted the I-55 overpass arching over the highway. George and Casey stood behind the front seats, surveying the quiet town through the dingy windshield.
Quiet was an understatement.
Having assumed I-55 would be a parking lot of fleeing people, the four of us were shocked to discover how empty it seemed. Unable to determine if that was a good omen or a bad one, we continued slowly toward the overpass.
On the southbound side of the interstate, we noticed that both the exit and entrance had been blocked by vehicles. Like, a lot of vehicles.
As far as we could see on either ramp, cars and trucks of every make and model were crammed together all the way to the actual interstate. Many were overturned, charred, or still smoldering, with numerous bodies—or, rather, the remains of bodies—lying on the road around them. Even in the moonlight, we could detect the blood and gore staining the pavement, and it seemed as if every window had been smashed and most of the doors ripped from their hinges.
We passed beneath the overpass, soon discovering that the northbound ramps were just as clogged and devastated. It appeared as though a tornado had blown through town, leaving massive wreckage in its wake.
Only… I’d seen such barricades before. Back in Gonzales, Louisiana. As if the town of Hazlehurst had collectively decided to impede any interstate traffic trying to invade their community.
The biggest difference? No snipers taking potshots at us. Also…
“There’s no movement,” George said, her tone incredulous.
I’d been thinking the exact same thing. Between my headlights, the ever-present light from the moon, and some sporadic flames, we
