Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  Ah, of course.

  I’d seen enough zombie flicks to know he was concerned about the infection spreading inside his sanctuary.

  “No, man, I’m clean. None of this blood is mine.” I cocked my head, listening to Azazel’s subdued growl. “Would you please lower the gun? You’re freakin’ my cat out.”

  He hesitated for only a moment, then dropped the gun-wielding hand to his side. “Sorry, kid. Had to be sure.” Troy called everyone “kid” – and even though he only had five years on me, he’d always seemed much older – like a black version of Marlon Brando from the first Godfather.

  My heart rate began to normalize, and I shifted Azazel’s carrier back to my side. As stressful as it was to have a loaded gun aimed at you – something I’d unfortunately experienced a few times in crime-ridden New Orleans – I supposed I should’ve felt lucky. Troy could’ve chosen to test me outside, with a dozen zombies closing in for the kill. Quite neighborly of him to invite me indoors before threatening to shoot me.

  Sensing movement to my right, I turned and noticed a handful of gorgeous twentysomething women, lounging around the plush, red-hued living room, all in various states of undress.

  The entire world’s ending out there, and this guy decides to host a goddamn orgy.

  Troy himself would’ve won no beauty prizes. A balding, fifty-year-old lush, he had to weigh more than three hundred pounds. The babes presently relaxing in his living room – and probably elsewhere in the sprawling mansion – were there because they believed Troy could protect them. Plain and simple.

  A voluptuous brunette, wearing a thin lacy number, winked at me, and I turned back to my friend. “Having a party?”

  A slender redhead, sporting high-heeled sandals and a white string bikini, rose from one of the brocade sofas and sauntered across the foyer. As she passed Troy, he smacked her ass, eliciting a girlish giggle.

  He winked at me, tucking the Magnum in a side pocket of his smoking jacket. “If the world’s gotta end, might as well go out in style. Or at least getting a great piece of tail.”

  “Well put,” I said.

  Just then, I sensed a throbbing pain in my left wrist and realized I’d been lugging Azazel for a while. At thirteen pounds, she might be a reasonable size for a cat, but still, she was heavier than the average bowling ball – and my arm likely would’ve hurt if I’d been running around the neighborhood with one of those in tow, too.

  I set her carrier on the marble floor. As soon as I did, a few of the girls rushed toward me to coo over the cute tabby. After giving them the requisite warning that Azazel could be more vicious – or at least less sociable – than she seemed, I faced Troy again. It was time to get what I’d come for.

  Beating me to the punch, he said, “So, what are you doing here, kid? Figured you’d be halfway to Michigan by now.”

  “I need to get it back,” I replied, more sheepishly than I’d intended.

  His brow furrowed, as if he needed to process what it was. Then, his eyes widened, and he expelled a guffaw. “Are you fucking kidding me? You fought your way across this bloody nightmare, just to get a goddamn ring?!”

  Yeah, I felt pretty stupid for risking my life – and Azazel’s – over a now-worthless trinket, but I wanted to make sure Clare had her grandmother’s ring. Cuz, no matter what happened out there on the road, I doubted we’d return to New Orleans anytime soon. In short, when it came to securing the ring or any other memorabilia, it was now or never.

  Troy didn’t really require an explanation – he was simply curious – so in answer to his question, I merely said, “Yep.”

  He just stared at me for a few seconds, then shook his head in disbelief. For once, words seemed to have failed him. In fact, it wasn’t until a topless blonde asked him for some more blow that he finally snapped out of his temporary fugue.

  Turning to me, he said, “To be honest, I often wish I had one of those tear gas grenades you bought.” He sighed, sounding rather tired of his high-maintenance playmates. “Just clear them all out.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, but the gas is kind of a waste. Won’t be much good against zombies.”

  “Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I sure could use some peace and quiet.” Keeping his eyes on me, he gently pushed the girl aside. “As for the ring… I been storing it in my bedroom.”

  Without waiting for a response, he headed toward the nearest staircase and signaled for me to follow him. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated. “Just don’t touch anything, OK? That shit all over your clothes might be contagious.”

  Reluctantly, I left Azazel downstairs. Clare would’ve scolded me for leaving her alone with a bunch of strangers, but I trusted my ferocious tiger could handle herself. Besides, Azazel would surely appreciate sitting still for a little while – and my sore arm definitely needed a break. Before walking away, I urged her to refrain from biting the three nearly naked women kneeling around her carrier, who were arguing over who should be able to pet her first.

  As I trailed Troy upstairs, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Maybe they’ll leave her alone after she bites the first one who sticks her hand in the carrier.

  Chapter

  13

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stay around to watch. I just can’t cope with the freaky stuff.” – Barry Convex, Videodrome (1983)

  Troy had purchased the former Soniat House for more than twelve million dollars, and though the buildings that made up his complex were roughly two hundred years old, he’d opted for a less traditional decor. In the end, he’d created a tacky, outlandish oasis Larry Flynt might’ve been proud to call home.

  Inviting sofas and lounges peppered every room, even the kitchen. Every bedroom boasted a stripper pole, sex swing, or other X-rated enhancement, not to mention the requisite dildos and assorted adult toys. The walls, curtains, and furniture primarily came in varied shades of red and purple, such as the violet-hued velvet wallpaper lining the grand staircase.

  Sensual photographs, paintings, sculptures, and sconces covered nearly every mantle, shelf, table, and surface in sight – and the scenes didn’t just depict tasteful nudes. They showcased people fucking in every way imaginable.

  Overall, the place reminded me of the House of the Rising Sun, the former brothel that now occupied the upper floors of my landlord’s property management office on St. Louis Street. Only, the brothel was infinitely classier.

  “Think you might’ve overdone the decor, Troy?”

  He chuckled. “No offense, but I’m not gonna take decorating advice from a sentimental dummy who just fought through herds of zombies for a lousy diamond ring.” Pausing at the top of the staircase, he glanced at a four-foot-tall marble statue of a nude woman squatting over a naked man, apparently peeing on his chest. “OK, yeah. I see your point.”

  We shared a momentary chuckle – a welcome break from the stress and fear that had been coursing through my veins. As the laughter faded, we continued down the seductively lit hallway, past open doors revealing other tempting young ladies.

  Troy certainly didn’t discriminate: He liked women of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. From petite and skinny to tall and enormous, most women were gorgeous in his eyes, and he’d always claimed any lady could be fun in bed – especially if her partner knew what he was doing.

  Eventually, we entered the master bedroom suite. Right away, I spotted a completely naked, large-breasted brunette lying across – I kid you not – a round, ten-foot-wide bed, like the kind you used to see in those old porn films. Clearly comfortable with her nude body, the woman barely glanced at us as we made a beeline for the antique mahogany wardrobe in one corner of the bedroom.

  Without even acknowledging the naked chick, Troy opened the ornate doors of the wardrobe, slid out a bottom drawer, and peered inside. After shuffling through some silk shirts, he sighed heavily and finally glanced toward the bed. “Lily, where’s all the jewelry I had in here?”

  Pointedly ignoring him, the so-called
Lily (an innocent name for a not-so-innocent girl) picked up a bottle of dark red nail polish from the nightstand and started nonchalantly painting the fingernails of her left hand.

  Troy slammed the drawer shut and stomped toward the bed. “I said… where the fuck is all the jewelry I kept in that drawer?”

  She concentrated on glossing her left thumbnail. “The girls are wearing most of it.”

  Troy grunted in disgust. “I told y’all to stay outta my wardrobe!”

  With a petulant sigh, she finally stopped polishing her nails and shot him an exasperated look. “We were bored,” she whined. “Thought a treasure hunt would cheer us up.”

  A sudden sparkle made me examine her left hand more closely.

  Fuck. This chick is actually wearing Clare’s ring.

  I moved closer to the bed. “Hey, where’d you get that?”

  “What, this?” Biting her lip, she held out her left hand and glanced at the twinkling diamond. “Found it.” She gazed at me with her heavily shaded bedroom eyes. “You like?”

  Troy shook his head, understandably annoyed at his sexy playmate. “Jesus, Lily. Give it to me.”

  She pulled herself into a sitting position, yanked the red silk sheet over her body, crossed her arms, and pouted. Even mostly covered, the girl was stunning. Troy might have to endure some immature bullshit from his slutty house guests, but he’d still die a happy man.

  “Hand it over,” he said, stepping toward her and holding out his palm. “Now.”

  “Why should I?” she asked defiantly.

  He snapped his fingers and extended his palm again. “Cuz this guy…” he said, gesturing toward me with his other hand, “…had to walk through a whole lotta zombie guts to come all the way here and get that goddamn ring. It belonged to his wife’s grandmother, for fuck’s sake.”

  She gazed at my stained clothes and crinkled her pert nose – apparently noting the blood and other nasty fluids she’d ignored before that moment. Then, she unfurled her left hand and appraised the ring in question: a sizable two-carat diamond, encircled by tiny garnets.

  Clare, who typically wore less expensive jewelry, had only donned the flashy ring whenever we attended a garish holiday event, outrageous Mardi Gras ball, or fancy Halloween party, where dressing to the nines was required. She loved the ring not for its monetary value, but because it had belonged to a grandmother she’d been very close to.

  A precious heirloom presently twirling around the finger of a big-breasted stripper. Despite my wife’s raunchy sense of humor, such a scene would not have amused her. And I couldn’t really blame her.

  With a melodramatic sigh, Lily reluctantly removed the ring from her slender finger and dropped it onto Troy’s open hand, letting the sheet fall, exposing her rather remarkable breasts – a manipulative move she’d probably used to her advantage in whichever strip joint she’d worked. “Did he at least pay you what he owes you?”

  I glanced sheepishly at Troy. I didn’t have the cash, and he knew it. But the end of the world had come, and money no longer meant a thing to him. To any of us.

  “He’s a friend,” he said, placing the ring inside my cupped hand. “Besides, he gave me a heads-up about the zombies. I owe him at least one for that.”

  I slipped the ring into the small coin pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, man.” Then, I scratched my head awkwardly, hesitating to ask the other question on my mind.

  Again, he seemed to sense my discomfort. “So, what else did you come for? Food? Water? Booze? Got quite a spread in the dining room.”

  I grimaced. Yes, my stomach had grumbled all morning, and my throat was parched as hell. No, two granola bars and two aspirin hadn’t provided enough pain-free energy for a death-defying sprint through the French Quarter. And sure, I could’ve killed someone for a gin and tonic. But at that precise moment, I had only one priority: keeping myself alive long enough to reach Clare, and hopefully for a while into the future.

  “Do you, by any chance,” I asked, “have a spare gun I could borrow?” I knew Troy – paranoid fucker that he was – had quite a few firearms in the house, but whether he’d give me a piece was another story. He likely doubted I’d ever be back to return it.

  Troy’s brow furrowed. “What the fuck happened to the arsenal you bought?”

  Feeling stupid all over again, I gazed down at my sneakers. Now covered in zombie goo. So much for changing my shoes. Or my clothes.

  Eh, fuck it.

  Given any luck, I’d have time to clean up later.

  With renewed purpose, I met Troy’s eyes, which glimmered with wry amusement. “I packed it all in my rig.” In truth, I thought I’d be safe for a few more days. “Didn’t expect the zombies so soon. All I had left in my apartment were a few steak knives and this axe.” I plucked the weapon from behind my belt.

  He shook his head, likely wondering how such an idiot had survived so long. “You’re killing me, kid,” he said, then, with a chuckle, returned to the wardrobe, where he proceeded to rummage through a different drawer. Apparently full of underwear: for men and women alike.

  Eventually, he pulled out a derringer: an antique, double-barreled palm pistol that surely wouldn’t be good for more than two shots at a time. It was no Magnum revolver, but beggars like me certainly couldn’t afford to be choosy. Or ungrateful.

  After handing me the gun, he returned to the drawer and dug through an assortment of boxers, bras, panties, and lingerie until he located a box of .38 bullets.

  I set my backpack on a small mahogany table featuring yet another tacky, X-rated sculpture, stuffed some of the bullets into the front pockets of my jeans, and packed the rest of the ammo in the bag. I slipped the axe into an easily accessible side pocket and, following a much-needed swig from one of the water bottles in my backpack, carefully loaded the derringer.

  “Takes .38 bullets,” I mused. “Thought derringers were all .22 caliber?”

  “Nah,” Troy replied. “They even make a .45.”

  I zipped up my satchel and resecured it on my back. “Thanks again, man.” I held up the gun with one hand and tapped the coin pocket with the other. “For both.”

  He laughed. “Happy to help. I figure, this way, if you manage to make it back to Clare, you won’t have to go through a divorce on top of everything else.”

  “Yeah,” Lily piped up from the bed, “cuz if you were my man, and you pawned my diamond ring, I would definitely dump your ass.”

  “Even if it was to buy a bunch of guns to protect your ass?” Not sure why I took the bait. Just felt like arguing with someone.

  She smiled coquettishly. “Yep. Even then.”

  I shrugged. Deep down, I knew Clare would much prefer an arsenal over a diamond ring, even one that had once belonged to her beloved grandmother. Pissed as she might be to learn I’d pawned the ring without telling her, she certainly wouldn’t divorce me over one well-intended transgression.

  Practical as she often was, she’d probably be more likely to leave me for putting my life – and Azazel’s – in mortal peril over a piece of now-worthless jewelry. Yet another reason why I’d rather be married to her, my soulmate, than the big-breasted pain in the ass on the bed.

  “From now on, Lily,” Troy warned, “stay outta my shit. Or I might just have to dump your ass on the street.”

  Leaving Lily in full-on pout mode, Troy and I exited the suite and retraced our steps down the hallway and staircase.

  On the lower level, he turned to me, an unusually worried look in his eyes. “So, what’s it like out there? I’ve seen some of the carnage from the galleries, and heard the yelling, but is it as insane as it seems?”

  “Worse. There are dead bodies everywhere. And real people still fighting. And screaming. And dying.” I swallowed, struggling to forget some of the awful shit I’d seen. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stay here long.”

  “Why?” He gazed around the adult playground he’d created for himself, then looked back at me, a weary expression on his face. “Got everyt
hing I need here.”

  “Maybe so. But, Troy, your supplies won’t last forever. Neither will the plumbing. And honestly, there are several fires raging through the Quarter. Your block might be OK for now, but if no one’s around to stop them, it’ll just take one good breeze… and the flames’ll be hopping from street to street.”

  His expression turned pensive, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Besides,” I continued, “as wonderful as it might seem to have a bunch of sexy babes around, you might’ve done better by hiring some armed guards. And building a few more booby traps. The zombies might eventually find a way inside, you know, and if not them, you’ll still have to worry about looters.”

  He nodded sagely. “All good points.” He smirked. “Even with your warning, I admit the whole zombie thing took me by surprise… but I certainly won’t go down without a fight.”

  I grinned. “I’m sure you won’t.”

  “So, what’re you gonna do?”

  “Well, Clare’s in Baton Rouge. At her mom’s place. So, I’m gonna drive there, grab the two of them, and follow through with the plan.”

  His brow furrowed. Again. “Joe, I’ve been listening to the shortwave. This is happening all over the country. Really think you can make it all the way up to Michigan?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know, but I gotta at least try.”

  “How can you even be sure the roads’ll be clear? They’re probably more jammed up than during a hurricane evacuation.”

  “What evacuation? I don’t remember an official warning on the news. The whole thing just spread like wildfire through the neighborhood. Probably the city, too. In one night. How many people you think made it out?”

  Troy sighed. Holed up in his sex palace, listening to the shortwave, he likely had fewer answers than I did.

  By the time I’d made a pit stop in one of his gold-trimmed bathrooms, retrieved Azazel’s carrier, and followed my friend to the front door facing Chartres Street, I had seen at least another half-dozen girls. I took back my original assessment: Larry Flynt would’ve looked up to the guy.