Free Insurgent Z: A Zombie Novel by Mark C. Scioneaux, Dane Hatchell

just got a call for help,” Chase said.
    “I hope it’s not what I think it is,” Mitch said.
    “I never thought I’d pray for an altercation at Paradis, but I’d much rather two inmates shank it out over a pork chop than having any more succumb to the Army’s poison.”
    “I know what you mean, Burl. I’ll go check it out and get back with you.”
    Burl reached over and put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Be careful.”
    “You know it.” Mitch pointed toward the door. Webber and Chase led the way to the cafeteria.
    It was organized chaos inside the eating area by the time the three reached the entrance. Some of the guards had lined up inmates who waited to be returned to their cells. Other inmates, at least 20 by Mitch’s estimate, lay on the floor. Their symptoms mimicked those who had collapsed earlier. Mitch did a quick scan at the faces and tried to remember if any had not been a member of the morning’s farm team. Without a doubt, there were. At least more than half. There was no connection with the mysterious illness and working the fields at Paradis.
    Parsons, Richards, and two other medical aids went through the motions of checking for vitals. A couple of guards manned stretchers and were in the process of hauling the victims out. The clinic’s main room wouldn’t hold the current amount of sick now. Mitch doubted if the Army was capable of hauling more than the four inmates they were already coming for. They would have to return or call for help, but even then, there was no way the military facility could handle the large amount of casualties. The word would have to go out for outside intervention—soon. Burl was almost down to his last card. He would have no choice but to play it.
    Mitch bounded by Parsons’ side. “There are so many. Where are you going to put them?”
    “I don’t—the gym. I guess we need to get them to the gym.”
    Mitch had never seen grown men like these—hardened criminals—act so scared over anything. Childlike panic swept over those unaffected. The inmates acted like an unseen monster was on the prowl to attack. There was no place to run.
     

Chapter 5
    What Could Go Wrong?
     
     
    The rumble of the diesel engine lulled Hart’s mind off the road and returned it to Mason’s cold stare from the meeting. Only one other man had looked at him that way before, and it was a sight forever burned into his mind.
    He had been on a mission twelve years ago in some shit-hole town in Iraq—a town whose name he could not remember, and even if he did, he couldn’t pronounce it anyway. Hart’s squad was caught in an ambush. Bullets rained from above, cutting him off. He took cover behind the nearest wall. As he returned fire in the general direction of the snipers, a male teen, no more than five feet tall, snuck up and smashed him in the back of the head with a piece of pottery. Hart had been rendered senseless for a moment, dropping his rifle to the ground. The pottery was thin and didn’t cause any real damage, but the blindside attack had shocked him.
    The enemy fell on him and pounded his back with fists.
    After a few seconds, Hart snapped from his daze. A quick backhand sent the monkey on his back to the ground. Hart jumped to his feet and was surprised, and a little embarrassed that a kid had gotten the better of him.
    He towered over the attacker who immediately returned to his feet, ready to finish the fight. The foe cried out in primordial rage, and ran at Hart with fists raised.
    Hart grabbed the boy by the neck with both hands and shoved him against a wall—no fear shown in the adversary’s eyes as his feet hovered above the ground. The boy stared at Hart, and that stare reflected generations of pain and suffering. It was filled with the hatred and contempt that only the self-righteous could project.
    The tighter Hart gripped, the more seething anger poured from the boy’s eyes. This anger was ancient, as timeless as the sands of the Syrian Desert. Hate was,