My family’s homestead in northern Michigan lay about eleven hundred and sixty miles from Port Gibson, but the upriver trip would shave off roughly fifty percent of our remaining mileage. We just needed to make it to an old ferry ramp situated over forty miles north of Natchez.
Captain Sal explained that, for the past two days, he’d been piloting his vessel up and down a hundred-mile stretch of the river, hoping to hear from his daughter—who, in his own words, was “one resourceful kid.” Although he presently had over thirty people and a dozen vehicles on board the Stargazer, he’d staunchly refused to leave the area and head north without Jess in tow—despite the near-mutinous demands to do so.
“Right now, I’m closer to Port Gibson,” he said. “And I couldn’t send you down to Natchez anyway. It’s not safe.”
What the hell is these days?
Apparently, Captain Sal had witnessed the fall of Natchez firsthand—when “a hurricane of the undead” blasted the city apart. He told us the town was still too dangerous for him to dock the boat safely. Unfortunately, the undead storm stretched much farther north, meaning the ramp west of Port Gibson wouldn’t be zombie-free either. Just less problematic than the towns of Natchez to the south and Vicksburg to the north.
Despite the sleep-deprived delirium that threatened to knock me on my ass, I felt a renewed burst of adrenaline at the thought of heading for the Stargazer—as well as a mega-dose of gratitude for Casey, who had spotted the two fully fueled pickup trucks, heard a telling sneeze, and insisted on investigating the smelly dumpster. Even Clare admitted that she was ultimately thankful for the Hazlehurst detour.
True, I was hesitant to trust a stranger to haul me and my people up two major rivers. For all I knew, Jess’s dad was a psycho, and Jess herself merely served as bait. I’d certainly encountered my fair share of assholes since waking up in my New Orleans courtyard.
On the other hand, I’d met several decent folks, too. The Summers clan at Home Depot. Ray and his kids down in Gramercy. Two voodoo-practicing sisters. The fearsome ladies of Gonzales. And of course, George and Casey.
Besides, hiding out in a nasty dumpster, trapped with a hungry zombified head, seemed like a ridiculous way to ensnare some well-armed, well-supplied dupes.
Even so, having a skeptical attitude seemed necessary in a zombie apocalypse—especially if I wanted to keep Clare and Azazel alive.
I had a good feeling, though, about Sal and Jess, and honestly, my biggest concern didn’t stem from them but, rather, from having to rely on a mighty waterway like the Mississippi. Yes, I’d already done that back on the bayous near Gonzales: Despite my reasonable fear of drowning, I’d trusted Bertha and her buddies to transport me, Azazel, and my van via a makeshift Cajun barge—and I had indeed lived to tell the crazy tale. A river-worthy ferryboat would ensure an infinitely safer, steadier ride. But as a non-swimmer, I still found the proposal unsettling.
Eh, what the hell. You only live once.
Traveling via water might unnerve me, but so would driving along zombie-choked roadways. And since Hazlehurst had turned out to be a bust, I knew it was time to go. At least before something else decided to blow up and ruin our day.
I didn’t have a better option than the one offered by Jess and her father, so once they’d both signed off and Casey had stowed the shortwave equipment, I spun around, secured my seatbelt, and headed for U.S. 51, hoping, as usual, for the best.
Chapter
23
“That is the most real, authentic, hysterical laugh of my entire life because THAT IS NOT A PLAN!” – Rocket Raccoon, Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Assuming MS-28 was a no-go—thanks to the varied explosions in Hazlehurst—I drove north on U.S. 51 to the town of Gallman. From there, I opted for a roundabout route, first west and then south, to reach Dentville Road, a paved, two-lane thoroughfare slicing through yet another dense forest.
After that, the drive to Port Gibson—which would’ve usually required about fifty minutes—ate up almost two hours, courtesy of numerous pileups and undead herds that forced me to slow down and weave through various, infinitely disturbing obstacle courses. Otherwise, though, the trip was uneventful—at least by post-apocalyptic standards.
While I made my plodding way to MS-18, Clare and George took the opportunity to grab some shut-eye—the former in her customary passenger seat, the latter on a freshly blanketed sofa. Naturally, Azazel snoozed away the morning in her carrier.
Casey, meanwhile, used the time to grab a snack and chat with his new pal. In fact, except for one quick break, during which Jess tidied up in the bathroom, the pair of them spent the entire ride sitting at the dining table, talking and laughing nonstop. Given all the trials and tribulations the two teenagers had endured over the past few days, I marveled at their seemingly boundless energy and resilience—and then remembered what hormones could do.
I glanced at my wife, her head resting on a neck pillow, her eyes closed to the world. Besides the fact that I wanted Clare to get some much-needed rest, I was grateful that she couldn’t see Jess in the T-shirt and jeans I’d lent her.
With the same slender frame that Jill had had, the girl had easily fit into my mother-in-law’s old clothes. I trusted Clare would want them to get some use, but I also knew seeing a veritable stranger wearing them mere hours after losing her mom might trigger another uncontrollable crying jag. So, I stayed as alert as possible and did my best not to jolt her awake.
During the trip, the night sky gradually lightened, which made it much easier for me to
