My husband Samuel was a Downs. In Louisiana, you just couldn’t make a finer “catch,” as my mother put it. The Downs family owned plantations, Uncle Solomon was a U.S. Senator, and the power and prestige of their slaves and properties offered vast advantages for a new blushing bride.
For me, Samuel built this manor home and farm. He often said our children would forever be wealthy, famous and a political powerhouse in the New Orleans area.
That was before the war, however, 150 years ago. Today it all belongs to the swamp, and no one remembers except the spirits.
A body suddenly crashed through a plate glass window at the Brigadier’s house. It made a hungry lunge for Captain Cooper, but its feet were tangled in the window curtains and it slammed to the floor, hungry teeth snapping and arms reaching. Captain Cooper quickly dispatched the zombie with a ceremonial saber thrust through the brain.
“Well that was too bloody close,” the cool Brigadier remarked, pouring a fresh cup of tea for the Captain.
“I’ll say.” Cooper wiped the zombie’s brains on the ruined curtains. “Where do you suppose it came from? This installation is supposed to be biter-free.”
Right on cue, a U.S. Army Apache helicopter hovered into view. It swerved dangerously with over a dozen biters clinging to its wheels and weapon pylons. The pilot’s terrified eyes met Cooper’s for just a moment, before it slid out of view sharply to the right in uncontrolled descent.
ParkInkSpot 