Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  Chapter

  23

  “They’re after the place. They don’t know why; they just remember. Remember that they want to be in here.” – Peter, Dawn of the Dead (1978)

  At North Broad, I took a left, headed southwest, and silently prayed to the gods of Detroit the van would hold out long enough for me to make it somewhere safe. I’d already endured too much bullshit to fail because of one flaming Mardi Gras Indian.

  Unfortunately, I had to dodge just as many cars, bodies, and zombies on Broad as I’d encountered on Rampart. The big difference, though, was I’d noticed more of the living.

  Good for them, bad for me.

  The frequency of gunshots and proximity of fresh meat appeared to whip the undead into a greater frenzy than usual.

  Everywhere I looked, battles were underway. From the open doors and windows of non-burning houses, people aimed their pistols and rifles into groups of ravenous zombies. I couldn’t understand why the residents hadn’t left town already – or at least barricaded themselves inside their homes.

  I’d always respected New Orleanians for their stubborn tenacity and impressive resilience – often staying through hurricanes and other disasters to fight for what little they possessed – but without a bunch of shooters, and an even larger bunch of guns, the latest war was a losing proposition. The undead presently outnumbered the living – and were way more relentless.

  Up ahead, I spotted an elderly black man, perched on a rickety porch, pointing a shotgun into a huddle of zombies on his front lawn. I wanted to slam on the brakes and yell at him to get his ass inside, but he was too far away to understand me – and I’d only end up distracting him. Perhaps fatally.

  As I neared his house, he managed to take down two of the creatures with one skillful headshot, but before he could shoot any of the others, a particularly daring predator grasped his ankle and yanked him down the steps. With a strangled cry, he vanished beneath the triumphant zombies.

  So much for trying not to distract him.

  A few seconds later, an old black woman bolted through the front door, hollering and brandishing a frying pan. She managed to whack a few of the zombies presumably munching on her husband, but to no avail. Inevitably, they pulled her from the porch, too.

  “Fucking idiots,” I hissed.

  Every time someone let the zombies win, he risked becoming yet another brainless killer on the already crowded streets of my soon-to-be-former city. I felt as if I were driving through some twisted nightmare ride at Disneyland, where the animatronic critters killed and ate the tourists. What a gruesome drive as person after person got taken down and torn apart, right in front of me.

  I sure hoped others who’d chosen to stay – like Robert, Myriam, and Troy – would fare better than those poor souls.

  Soon afterward, I took a right onto Tulane Avenue, which would pass through Mid-City and eventually morph into Airline Highway. As I traveled from a residential area into a more industrial one, taking note of the abandoned cars, meandering zombies, and nonworking traffic lights, I had a sudden idea.

  The year before, a developer had erected an enormous shopping complex on Tulane, adjacent to a relatively new outpost of The Home Depot. If I could park the van in an inconspicuous spot and safely get into the store, I might be able to find a quick fix for my busted radiator.

  When I pulled into the spacious parking lot, I noticed only a handful of zombies milling about the two entrances of Home Depot. The buildings on either side of the Depot’s rear access lanes were a totally different story.

  On the left side, there stood a Whole Foods Market. The automatic doors appeared to be closed, but looters, zombies, or both had obviously busted out all the glass, leaving little more than metal frames and several gaping holes, large enough for undead “shoppers” to keep wandering in and out. I doubted any living people were still inside.

  Was it ironic – or somehow fitting – that urban Southerners in a relatively poor area had destroyed a pricey upscale grocery and not the home improvement store next door?

  Meanwhile, on the right side of Home Depot – just opposite the outdoor garden center – lay a huge Pet Mart. The rest of the complex included several small boutiques and three restaurants. I remembered when the Vietnamese place opened next to the pet store; numerous people joked its daily specials would feature dogs that hadn’t been adopted the day before.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if any animals had been trapped inside the Pet Mart, particularly since hundreds of zombies currently surrounded the building as well as the stores and restaurants nearby. Perhaps many people would disagree, but the idea of the cats and dogs starving to death upset me more than the dead humans I’d already seen.

  I knew that plenty of folks would hate me for such a sentiment, but in all fairness, most animals were completely innocent. In general, they didn’t rob and rape one another as humans were wont to do.

  OK, true, Clare and I had once witnessed a horrible hamster gang rape at a country hardware store outside San Diego. Perhaps thirty hamsters had dwelt in the same terrarium – apparently, a big no-no. Why? Because they couldn’t handle such a living arrangement with maturity and grace. Instead, the dominant hamsters had cornered the smaller ones, making them squeal terribly – and given that all of them were males, it wasn’t as though they’d been mating, but I digress…

  Suffice it to say, I’d always hated to see innocent animals suffer.

  Although, really, fuck those rapey hamsters.

  Even after all the gross shit I’d observed, that awful scene was still seared into my brain.

  I stopped the van at the far end of the parking lot to prepare my gear. Surveying my small arsenal, I opted for the Mossberg shotgun and a handy snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38. While I’d stowed plenty of weapons in my vehicle, the .38 was the last one I’d shot at the range, so its feel was still fresh in my mind. Familiarity could help if I ended up in a tight spot.

  After loading both guns, I removed the baggies of frog powder from my shirt pocket, put some shells and spare bullets in their place, then strapped on a hip holster for the handgun. For good measure, I also stuck Troy’s derringer in my front jeans pocket. Having an extra piece couldn’t hurt, and unlikely as it seemed, the derringer had already saved my life several times.

  Once armed, I peered out the back windows of my van and assessed the situation. The contractor entrance beneath the awning would probably work best: The glass doors appeared to be intact, and I could likely reach them without having to shoot any zombies.

  Good thing, since gunshots always seem to excite the undead.

  I returned to the driver’s seat, put my vehicle in gear, and drove at a decent clip toward the overhang. Several meandering zombies turned at the sound of my rumbling step van, but I was more concerned about the three denim-clad creatures – perhaps former contractors – approaching the glass doors. I pressed the gas pedal to the floor and plowed right through them, only slamming on my brakes once the van was even with the doors.

  One of the zombies had bounced off my bumper and smacked into a giant concrete column. His head collided with the column first, leaving a giant red-and-black splotch behind as he fell motionless to the ground. The other two zombies were probably still twitching on the pavement, but I couldn’t be sure, since I’d squashed them beneath my front tires with a sickening crunch.

  Good news: I’d stopped the van so close to the doors no zombie would be able to squeeze between the gap. Bad news: I wouldn’t be able to step outside until I’d pried open the store entrance.

  Following my noisy arrival, I’d unfortunately attracted a few zombies toward my van. Quickly, before they reached me, I pocketed the keys, grabbed a crowbar from my toolbox, and opened the passenger-side door beside Azazel’s carrier. Then, with some difficulty, I managed to jam the crowbar between the glass doors and push open one side, just enough for me to squeeze into the store entranceway.

  Although I wasn’t eager to leave the vehicle – and
Azazel – behind, the constant heat from the open vents had made me feel lightheaded and anxious for a break. Besides, I really needed to repair the radiator, if at all possible.

  Azazel looked at me through the slits of her carrier.

  I touched her nose with my forefinger. “Hate to leave you, girl, but I should be right back.”

  Glancing through the windshield and the driver’s-side window, I noticed the zombies congregating around the van. While they couldn’t squeeze between my vehicle and the store entrance, they could possibly slither beneath the undercarriage, past their squished cohorts below my front wheels, and reach me, Azazel, or the store that way. So, after rubbing Azazel’s furry head through the top of her carrier, I grabbed the Mossberg from the van floor, shut and locked the passenger-side door, and closed the entrance of Home Depot.

  As I slid the crowbar through one of my belt loops and raised the shotgun, I found myself wishing, for the first time in my life, I was an auto mechanic – or at least the kind of guy who could’ve run down a Mardi Gras Indian and spared his goddamn radiator.

  Chapter

  24

  “See. According to this, you’re already dead.” – Elsa, Jacob’s Ladder (1990)

  While prying open the doors to Home Depot, I’d half-expected a bunch of zombified employees in those iconic orange vests to rush me as soon as I entered the building. But, thankfully, nothing like that occurred.

  Turning from the entrance, with the shotgun held high, I realized I could only see about ten yards ahead of me, where the natural light from outside spilled across the blood-stained entryway. Every time I’d visited Home Depot in the past, I’d encountered a gigantic, brightly lit, refreshingly cool warehouse, bustling with knowledgeable employees and purposeful customers.

  As I took a couple tentative steps forward, though, I realized it was the darkest, stuffiest, quietest home improvement store I’d ever faced – and stupidly, I’d forgotten to grab a flashlight before leaving the van. Extreme hunger, pure exhaustion, and a constant headache made it tough to remember every necessary detail – a fact that could get me killed at some point.

  Luckily, the light from the entrance windows illuminated a few nearly empty shelves off to the side, where I spotted a solitary multitool kit. I set down the shotgun, tore open the box, and discovered a drill, a circular saw, a reciprocating saw, and a pivoting flashlight, each of which could be powered by one of the two enclosed eighteen-volt batteries. Since the rechargeable batteries usually had a bit of juice, even after being in the package for a while, I attached one to the flashlight and hoped for the best.

  When I flicked the switch, a strong beam of light rewarded my efforts. I retrieved my shotgun, plucked a couple plastic bags from the floor, and, holding the flashlight before me, scanned the closest aisles. It didn’t take long to see the store was in shambles. Except for one bloody trail leading to the rear storage area, it wasn’t the kind of gory mess indicating zombies had been everywhere, but the sort of disarray that told me looters had already ransacked the place.

  Frankly, I couldn’t blame the locals for hitting up Home Depot for supplies. Hell, it would’ve been my first choice, too. If the joint had sold food, beer, electronics, and sporting goods, I might’ve never gone anywhere else.

  Once I’d stepped over and around the debris and reached the small automotive section, the truth became apparent: I probably wouldn’t find any useful tools or supplies to mend the radiator. Pretty much everything of value or relevance was gone.

  I did, however, grab a bottle of hand sanitizer and a few tree-shaped, pine-scented air fresheners. Since I was covered in zombie gore, I assumed the van smelled awful – and it would only get worse if I had to blast the heat for a while. Obviously, I’d gone nose-blind to my vehicle’s interior, my sense of smell having adjusted to the foulness, but I didn’t want Clare to have to deal with that odor all the way up to northern Michigan. No doubt she and her mom had already endured enough.

  I moved toward the aisle normally featuring countless varieties of tape, from packaging to electrical to duct, but looters had gutted that section, too. On one of my previous supply runs, I’d purchased several packages of Gorilla tape to store in the van, but I’d accidentally left all the rolls at the store.

  A self-reliant curmudgeon at heart, I’d long been a fan of self-checkout lanes. They did, however, have one major drawback: nobody to blame but myself for scanning the tape, shifting it over to make room for more merchandise in the bagging area, and then forgetting to put that particular bag in the cart before leaving the store.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  Even though I’d mumbled the words, my voice echoed eerily in the dark, silent store. I certainly hoped I was alone because, otherwise, I’d likely just attracted some walking corpses. After a moment of listening for any telltale rustling or groaning sounds, I still couldn’t hear anything but my own breath and the blood pounding in my ears.

  While I hadn’t had much luck yet in finding any helpful supplies, I decided to continue combing through the store. Figured I might as well look around, just in case I spotted some tool or material I could use to repair the hole in the radiator.

  By the time I reached the far side of the store, I no longer needed the flashlight. The sliding doors leading into the outdoor garden center were ajar, and plenty of natural light spilled across the threshold. As with every other branch of Home Depot I’d encountered, a fifteen-foot-high, chain-link fence surrounded the garden center, so unless someone had breached it in a spot I couldn’t see, it seemed like the place was secure.

  Standing on one side of the open doorway, I shoved the flashlight into a plastic bag hanging from my wrist, held out the shotgun, and poked my head into the garden center. Although looters had obviously picked through that section, too, I still observed rows of potted plants, stacks of soil, and racks of various gardening tools – items apparently less tempting in a crisis. The metal roof of the building extended over the space, a few feet above the fence, creating a pleasant outdoor area, protected from the city’s frequent rainstorms.

  To be honest, if you had some food and water, Home Depot wasn’t a bad spot to wait out the zombie apocalypse. True, looters had depleted some of its resources, but it still housed a slew of useful supplies, including a shitload of generators and propane tanks, which could run necessary items like lights, grills, fans, and heaters for quite a while.

  It also had fewer entryways to barricade than a typical shopping mall. In addition, that particular branch was close enough to the adjacent strip mall that, with a makeshift roof-to-roof bridge, survivors could easily access the nearby restaurants and their food stores, especially any nonperishable items.

  Naturally, I had no intention of camping at Home Depot. I needed to get back to Azazel – and find a way to reach Clare. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how someone might fortify the place.

  As I shook off my curiosity and tried to formulate a new plan for fixing my van, I noticed a fiberglass extension ladder dangling from a thick rope. Tracing the rope, I realized someone had snaked it through two of the roof supports and attached it to an ultra-expensive ATV parked near the open entranceway. Seemed as if previous looters had also considered creating a bridge to reach the adjacent shopping complex – and perhaps someone had interrupted their project midstream.

  Despite my hunger, thirst, and fatigue, I was still full of adrenaline from fighting off and running from zombies all day – and alert enough to feel my “spider-sense” tingling. Instinctively, I ducked my head just as a sledgehammer swished past my peripheral vision and smashed into the door frame beside me. My momentum caused me to tumble forward into the garden center, crashing into a planter containing a thorny rose bush and losing my shotgun, crowbar, flashlight, and extra ammo in the process.

  “What the fuck?!”

  My inadvertent outburst attracted the notice of some of the zombies between buildings. Their heads turned toward the garden center, their groans loudened, and a
few of the more eager creatures shook the chain-link fence. It wasn’t my smartest moment, but I didn’t care. The thorns from the rose bush had penetrated my jeans and punctured my thighs, shooting bolts of pain throughout my legs.

  Still, I didn’t have time to focus on my latest injury. From the sound of footsteps behind me, I sensed the person who’d swung the sledgehammer had followed me into the garden center. Quickly, I rolled away from the thorns and onto my back, pulled the .38 from my hip holster, and aimed it toward the entranceway.

  “No, don’t shoot,” a young female voice cried from the shadows to my right.

  Glancing from side to side, I couldn’t see the owner of the voice – or my assailant.

  “Pawpaw,” the unseen woman said, “he’s not a zombie.”

  Suddenly, the scene came into focus, and I realized a wizened eighty-year-old man, wearing khaki pants and a long-sleeved Oxford shirt, stood just inside the garden center, the sledgehammer raised above his head, ready for another swing. His slender arms trembled as he tried to keep the weapon aloft, but the determination in his eyes made it clear that, though not an easy feat for him, he would do what he could to protect himself and his loved ones from the walking dead.

  “I’m not a zombie,” I assured him, aiming my pistol toward the pavement.

  Slowly, the elderly man lowered the sledgehammer, his eyes still squinting with suspicion. “You’re not?”

  The smart ass in me wanted to remind him I was armed and having a conversation with him – not typical practices of the undead – but at the last second, I thought better of it and simply shook my head.