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

taking care of people so bad off they need hospice service, and I come home to more misery! Taking care of my loser husband, who makes a few bucks by dealing dope out of his van. I need a vacation. I need my hair done. I need a manicure and a pedicure and someone who gives a shit about me.” Deb broke down in tears and sobbed into the palm of her hands.
    Ryn bit his lip and turned his head. It tore him up inside to see her hurt like this. A picture of his grandfather and father, the only family he had ever known, stared up from the desk’s shelf.
    This was not the life Deb expected to have. Ryn was one of those lucky lottery winners who had been born into a family that held a coveted seat in the bar pilot association. That privilege had secured a bar captain license for his father and for his grandfather before him. He had expected to begin his apprenticeship directly out of high school. Once he qualified for his license, he would work two weeks a month, captaining large ocean vessels through the narrow waterways from the mouth of the Mississippi river, up to the city of New Orleans. Being a bar pilot was an exclusive, if dangerous, position. Each captain was responsible for the safe delivery of cargo and passengers aboard very large ships in very confined waterways. Bar Captains were considered nautical rock stars. It was a state job that paid salaries topping three-hundred thousand a year.
    Ryn’s grandfather had given up his time on the river and took over his father’s position in the association. Ryn’s future had been fully planned out. He had promised Deb a life of luxury. Instead, that plan had all blown up before they even graduated high school. 
    Ryn’s father had taken a bend in the river too close to shore and ran an oil tanker aground. He then lost his license when he tested beyond the legal limit for alcohol. To make matters worse, Ryn’s grandfather died a few months later. Ryn no longer had any representation in the bar pilot association. When he became of legal age to join the apprenticeship, the congressman representing the district had already sold his family’s seat on the association. Ryn’s application was rejected.
    His dad had, by then, crawled into a bottle and lived his life in a shack on some unnamed bayou. He spent his days drinking beer and pole fishing from his pier.
    To ease the pain of his situation, Ryn received a half million dollars inheritance from his grandfather’s death. He and Deb had rented a nice condo in the Garden District of New Orleans. Life had been wonderful at first. They would party every night and sleep all day.
    After a few years, he realized that at least an equal amount of money needed to be coming in as was going out. It was the gambling that had brought about his ultimate demise. He had lost everything, and even more than that. His only chance to save his life was to flee and hide. Botte was, apparently, one of the best places to go to drop off the face of the Earth.  
    He had fished at first to earn a living, but was never able to get ahead. Dealing drugs proved to be slightly more profitable, and now he was just about to hit the jackpot.
    “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t cry. Here, sit down and relax.”
    Deb collapsed in a chair; face still planted in her palms.
    “I got some news. Pull yourself together.” Ryn plucked a joint off the table from the pile he had rolled earlier. He slapped his front pocket and found it empty, and then spotted a lighter on the coffee table. A flick of the Bic produced a flame that lit the foot of the joint held between his lips. The distinct, sweet aroma of burning weed filled the room. Ryn inhaled and held it in. He pulled the joint from his mouth and motioned it toward Deb.
    “About your DWI? What’d the judge say at your preliminary? You get off with a fine like you thought?” She hesitated, but took the joint, snatching it quickly, and filled her lungs.
    Ryn exhaled slowly with his eyelids half open. “Didn’t make