Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  That’s right, you don’t remember it – because the media never issued such a warning. Local, regional, and national government fucktards throughout the world never revealed the bad news. Difficult as it was to accept in the digital age, the powers-that-be had managed to clamp down and lock up any whispers of Armageddon.

  Yep, great plan. What a bunch of asshats.

  When the breach had occurred – and the infection, virus, or whatever it was started to spread – the whole damn mess had been covered up. As country after country went dark, those in the know had used every excuse they could. First, solar flares had been the supposed cause of any lost communication. Then, borders had been closed due to an advanced version of the Ebola virus. In fact, thanks to denial or ignorance or just plain selfishness, they had done everything possible to prevent the world from finding out… it was all coming to an end.

  Chapter

  2

  “They’re coming to get you, Barbara! There’s one of them now!” – Johnny, Night of the Living Dead (1968)

  Not long after having learned about the undead invasion, Samir and Dibya had virtually vanished off the face of the planet. Yet, the only reason I knew about any of it was thanks to Samir: Turned out the last app he’d prepared for me wasn’t an app at all.

  One afternoon, a couple weeks before the zombie wave hit New Orleans, a mysterious overnight package had arrived at the French Quarter Postal Emporium, where Clare and I kept a mailbox for our various business ventures. Labeled URGENT and addressed to Joseph Daniels (not one of our business names), the package contained a solitary flash drive – in itself an unusual occurrence since Samir normally uploaded the latest program to our shared cloud server.

  Once I’d learned the truth, though, the puzzling flash drive made a whole lot of sense.

  Following the breach and the ensuing epidemic, the powers-that-be had likely tracked Samir and Dibya’s outgoing communications. Leaving snail mail as their last resort. And somehow, by the grace of someone, the package had reached us. Not snow, not rain, not heat, not even zombie invasions could thwart some couriers.

  More than a little curious, I’d loaded the app onto my phone and entered the password Samir and I typically used for all our unreleased programs. But what was supposed to be our version of a white noise generator – to help people sleep or meditate or just calm the fuck down – had actually contained an audio message explaining everything that would happen.

  As an unwelcome bonus, Samir and his wife were apparently in extreme danger and, consequently, wouldn’t be able to contact me anymore. It saddened me to think I’d never talk to him again, but I also felt grateful he’d thought of me in his darkest days and managed to send me anything at all – much less classified information that had likely gotten him and Dibya killed.

  Then, at the end of his message, came the kicker: I had only three weeks to get ready for the end.

  However the epidemic had started, it had spread alarmingly fast – via direct bites or any other zombie fluids people managed to get into their systems. At first, the disease simply killed its hapless victims. Then, it animated the dead cells in any infected human bodies (with their brains still intact), effectively bringing recent corpses back to life as flesh-seeking monsters. Just like any good zombie flick, except without the benefit of make-believe.

  All of those “chemical spills” that killed thousands across India had simply been the first dead zones. Incidents that, in the beginning, had been covered up by local and regional governments. When those entities could no longer handle the crisis, the task had moved to India’s national administration. Every time the truth leaked out, the next level of fucking bureaucracy had done its best to put a lid on it.

  In the end, I had far less than three weeks to prepare for the impending doom. Dibya’s calculations on the probable distribution of the infection had missed the mark on that score, but sadly, the actual timing was the only thing Samir and his wife had gotten wrong.

  So, I thought I had another six days to get out of Dodge. Well, the splattered blood, black ooze, and two zombie bodies on the pavement told me otherwise.

  No doubt most people would’ve considered the whole mess one giant prank. I probably would’ve, too, but something about Samir’s tone had made me a believer, even more so when I’d tried to contact him. As he’d predicted, that proved to be impossible. By the time I heard his message, he and Dibya had disappeared.

  Clare and I had always been horror fans, particularly of zombie flicks and TV shows, so to her credit, my wife had believed me when I’d told her about Samir’s message. OK, well, that wasn’t exactly true. It was one thing to have a fondness for tall zombie tales; it was another thing entirely to trust such post-apocalyptic scenarios could really happen.

  In all fairness, I’d had to play Samir’s actual recording for her – a few times, in fact – before she’d accepted the new normal. Granted, Clare hadn’t wanted to believe our friend’s heartfelt warning, but she’d ultimately agreed to vacate our life in New Orleans before the three-week deadline.

  Still, my wife would’ve hated seeing the courtyard in its present condition. Blood splatter covered the front of our grill. Our patio chairs lay in disarray, and whatever nasty goo had oozed out of both zombie heads now pooled around the legs of the plastic table holding our ultra-inexpensive washer and dryer.

  With my head throbbing and my stomach grumbling for sustenance, I righted the chairs and rolled the undead pirate closer to the grill, away from the rear steps.

  Big mistake.

  The foul-smelling goop slowly spilling out of his head splashed all over the pavement.

  It didn’t really matter, of course. I’d never expected to return to the apartment once we were safely somewhere else. Clare wouldn’t ever see the courtyard in such a nasty state. In fact, she’d never again encounter any of what had become, over the past four years of living there, our pride and joy.

  Nabbing the apartment had marked the first time we’d ever had a private courtyard – quite a coup for renters in the French Quarter. Most courtyards in New Orleans, especially those in the city’s oldest neighborhood, were either enjoyed by a single homeowner or, in the case of buildings turned into apartment complexes, shared by all the current tenants.

  Our building, however, only housed three apartments: two in the front, along St. Ann Street, and ours in the rear, accessible via a gated side alley. Since we (and the landlord, if she were still alive) had the only keys to the gate, Clare and I had the courtyard all to ourselves. Not the roomiest space, but we’d still managed to transform it, within our small budget, into a cozy retreat, a place to grill our meals, host intimate crawfish boils, and relax with cocktails beside the fire pit – a sanctuary from the craziness of the Quarter.

  Sadly, though, not one item from the courtyard had been part of my prep work for the oncoming zombie apocalypse, so it would all stay put.

  My gaze shifted to the tiled table beside the grill, a faded red canvas umbrella sheltering it and the four encircling chairs from the sunlight. Clare and I had shared so many romantic meals at that table, so many card games and cocktails with friends. All that was over, though. Most of those friends were surely dead by now – either unwilling to believe Samir’s warning or ill-prepared for the premature zombie onslaught.

  To be honest, though, I’d never really liked most of them all that much. Besides, I had other shit to worry about. Like my family.

  Tell me, at a time like this, is that wrong?

  As I stared at the table, willing myself to go back inside, I heard soft grunts and shuffling footsteps coming from Tommy’s courtyard. That decrepit wooden barrier – with its broken slats, rusted nails, and half-ass patches – was the only downside of our private oasis. For years, our landlord and the owners of the house behind us (that is, Tommy and his wife) had battled over who should repair the run-down fence, which just got weaker with every windstorm, rainfall, and hurricane. But at least my neighbor’s ladder no longer push
ed against the rotten wood, weakening it even more. I took momentary solace in that.

  Momentary.

  Of course, what happened next shouldn’t have surprised me. I might’ve secured the front gate, but I’d done nothing to fortify the back fence. So, it did little to prevent two zombies from crashing through the already compromised slats, the sound of splintering wood jolting me from my reverie. The shuffling I’d heard had no doubt become a desperate sprint once the two creatures had caught a whiff of my scent.

  “Son of a bitch!” I cursed as the first zombie slammed into me.

  We both tumbled to the ground, where I once again smacked my head against the concrete steps.

  This shit is getting old… real fast.

  Chapter

  3

  “My easygoing nature is getting’ sorely fuckin’ tested.” – Bill Pardy, Slither (2006)

  Fortunately, I didn’t lose consciousness, but the pain still jostled my concentration. I had to stay focused and subdue the zombie quickly – not just to avoid being his breakfast, but also to liberate myself before the second zombie became a problem. The only thing preventing him from attacking me was that he’d inadvertently caught his coat on a nail jutting out from one of the fence supports. Given the crappy condition of the fence – and the zombie’s apparent determination to reach me – I knew it wouldn’t hold him for long.

  I shifted my attention back to the creature on top of me. Based on the expensive suit he wore – presently spattered with blood, thanks to the gaping, ragged hole in his shoulder – he appeared to be a businessman of some kind. Maybe a lawyer or a banker or some other white-collar type that rarely endured a zombie apocalypse. At least in the movies.

  Although the gore on his face made it hard to tell, the guy seemed to be about my age: mid-forties. But, damn, he must’ve worked out a bit more than I ever had. Even as a mindless zombie, the dude had unnatural strength.

  As soon as the businessman had fallen on top of me, he’d grabbed my shirt and pulled himself toward my face. His weight threatened to suffocate me, and his gnashing teeth moved closer to my cheek. Luckily, the axe once again came in handy. It really was a solid zombie-killing device.

  With some effort, I managed to push against the zombie’s chest and simultaneously shove the axe handle into his mouth, smashing several of his once-perfect teeth in the process. Not that the dental dilemma stopped him. He simply responded by chewing on the wood with his remaining incisors, trying his damnedest to reach my hand. Putrid saliva, pus, and blood dripped onto my face as I slid the handle through his mouth. When the axe blade caught against his cheek, I yanked the handle downward and, amid horrendous cracking and snapping sounds, sliced his lower jaw away from his head.

  More foulness gushed onto my skin and clothes, but luckily, I’d clamped my own jaws shut to avoid contamination. Besides, the distraction enabled me to wriggle out from beneath the businessman and roll him onto his back.

  Stumbling to my feet, I glanced toward the other zombie, the one dressed like a familiar-looking cowboy – complete with tan pants, a maroon work shirt, a brown knee-length duster coat, a hip holster on his belt, and brown leather gloves, boots, and suspenders. I could only assume that he and the businessman had become compatriots after the zombie apocalypse began – and not before. Regardless, the cowboy still struggled against the same stubborn nail, the suede coat apparently too sturdy to tear easily.

  Before I could deal with the hapless cowboy, the jawless businessman started to rise. With little hesitation, I set the axe on the table, picked up the spare propane tank beside the grill, heaved it above my head, and smashed it down onto his mangled face.

  Four blows later, he lay motionless in a heap of gore, and my arms ached from the weight of the propane tank. Setting it on the ground, I kept my eyes on the bloody zombie, just in case he wasn’t quite dead yet… although, the vile, shattered mess that used to be his head should’ve been my first clue he wasn’t coming back. The chunks of skull and putrid brain matter dripping from the propane tank only solidified that fact.

  A ripping sound alerted me to his partner’s presence. The cowboy had finally broken free of the fence and stumbled through the foliage lining the courtyard. Hastily, I inverted one of our patio chairs, snagged him with the legs before he could reach me, and maneuvered him to the right side of the building.

  Three large air-conditioning units (one for each apartment), plus ladders, hoses, and various tools, filled the narrow alley, rendering it more of a cramped storage area than a pathway to St. Ann Street (unlike the alley on the other side). In addition, thick brown vines covered the ground, snaking around the A/C units and making it easy to trip. I’d once watched a repairman take a nasty tumble there, so I figured I could simply prod the cowboy – actually, he looked more like a certain space cowboy – with the chair and push him over the first A/C unit.

  Although I managed to pin him against the metal frame, my victory didn’t last long. With the surprising strength and stamina of a fresh zombie (at least according to Hollywood), he pushed the chair aside and immediately righted himself. Luckily, before he could get close to me, he slipped on a vine and smacked his temple on a corner of the A/C.

  I hoped the blow to his head had killed him, but after a moment, he again rose to his feet.

  What the fuck?

  Seriously, the left side of the guy’s face had caved inward, but his brain was somehow still active, and he clearly hadn’t given up his desire to eat me.

  While moving forward, he accidentally stepped inside a nest of vines. Both of his boots snagged the root-like foliage, and he fell forward onto the pavement, his lower half trapped as if in quicksand. He tried to wriggle out of the vines, but the more he fidgeted, the more tangled he became.

  The space cowboy had finally grounded himself. Of course, I kicked his head anyway – just for good measure.

  Chapter

  4

  “It’s Halloween. Everyone’s entitled to one good scare.” – Brackett, Halloween (1978)

  Leaving the space cowboy to his own tangled mess, I returned the chair to its rightful spot and retrieved the axe from the table. With a towel I’d accidentally left in our covered dryer, I did my best to wipe off my face as well as the axe. The bloody feathers, fur, and hide had seen better days, but at least the blade was relatively clean. An effective zombie killer, it would make a solid addition to the lengthy list of weapons I’d purchased while preparing for the apocalypse.

  In our more than seventeen years together, Clare and I had never had a lot of money. Figuring what little we did possess would be pretty useless once the zombie chaos started, I’d decided I might as well spend it all preparing for the end.

  So, after having persuaded Clare to trust Samir’s insane message, I’d started buying everything I thought we’d need for our hasty exodus from the city. I’d even chronicled the entire process on my blog, which, by the end, had only attracted about a hundred readers.

  Not bad for such a short run, though I doubted it had done any good. Even those who’d “believed” me were probably not prepared for how batshit-crazy the situation would get.

  For the benefit of my meager audience, I’d cataloged everything I’d bought and why. Kept urging people to prepare for doomsday, striving to convince them of the government’s lies, hoping to make them believe the infected dead would really, truly rise. I’d blogged every night, for the first nine days of my preparations, then my blog had experienced “technical difficulties” and no longer appeared.

  Fucking government.

  Guess I should be grateful Clare and I hadn’t disappeared along with my public ramblings.

  Anyway… the people who’d followed my blog generally fell into one of two categories. First, those entertained by the rantings of a lunatic, chiding me with their inane comments, claiming I was just another unhinged nut seeking attention for his crazy conspiracy theories. But, right or wrong, they kept giving me the attention I supposedly craved.

&
nbsp; The rest of my readers considered themselves doomsday preppers. While most of them weren’t the sort of folks I’d want to socialize with on a regular basis, they certainly shared a lot of decent ideas and ultimately steered me in the right direction for some of my survival prep work.

  Following the curious shutdown of my blog, I’d simply continued to gather supplies and ready us for life during the zombie chaos, periodically combing the web for any mention of what was happening in America and overseas. Not surprisingly, there hadn’t been much in the way of accurate news.

  Then, fourteen days into the twenty-one-day countdown – and yes, we’d intended to leave town before the very end – Clare had decided to head to Baton Rouge. The reason? She’d hoped to convince her mom to come with us when we fled north.

  Now, just to be clear, Clare’s mother had despised me ever since we’d gotten married fifteen years earlier, so the idea of her coming with us didn’t exactly thrill me. Then again, compared to the imminent apocalypse, she was the least of my worries. And Jill’s presence was bound to put Clare at ease, which might even make the whole trip less stressful for me.

  In essence, our plan was to head north to my parents’ property in northern Michigan and hopefully ride out the storm (so to speak). Clare, who admittedly hated driving, had reluctantly ventured the eighty miles to Baton Rouge by herself, while I’d stayed behind to finish loading up the old step van I’d purchased.

  After much tug-of-war between me (the purger) and my wife (the hoarder), I’d managed to pack up or ship out almost everything of importance (including a small, nonnegotiable selection of Clare’s photos, jewelry, and other memorabilia). Following my final supply trip to the secure lot where we kept our van, the only precious items left included a go-bag and our furry child: Azazel, a seven-year-old, short-haired tabby.