Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  We passed beneath the overpass, soon discovering that the northbound ramps were just as clogged and devastated. It appeared as though a tornado had blown through town, leaving massive wreckage in its wake.

  Only… I’d seen such barricades before. Back in Gonzales, Louisiana. As if the town of Hazlehurst had collectively decided to impede any interstate traffic trying to invade their community.

  The biggest difference? No snipers taking potshots at us. Also…

  “There’s no movement,” George said, her tone incredulous.

  I’d been thinking the exact same thing. Between my headlights, the ever-present light from the moon, and some sporadic flames, we could see enough to realize that nothing was moving. No human survivors. No walking corpses. Nothing.

  “What the fuck happened here?” I asked aloud.

  “No idea,” George replied. “But I imagine it’s nothing good.”

  As I crept along the highway, I offered an uber-abridged version of my experience in Gonzales. Clare had already heard the sordid tale, but I hadn’t yet had time to share it with George and Casey.

  “Well, I’m glad no one’s trying to shoot us,” George said.

  “Yeah,” Casey agreed, “but it’s still messed up.”

  “All those busted windows, the missing doors,” Clare added. “What could have done that? A couple of those hairy wildling things?”

  “Maybe,” I hedged, though, having never witnessed the unusual beasts traveling in packs, I highly doubted it. “I’ve seen zombies bust through windows, but nothing quite like this. An enormous, ravenous horde must’ve passed through here.”

  “Could be,” Clare agreed. “Then, whoever was left in town decided to pile up the wrecks to form barriers before slipping away to fortify their hideaways.” She sighed wearily. “Not that that’ll stop the dead. Just the living.”

  “Makes sense,” Casey said, “but don’t you think it’s weird that they only closed off the interstate? There are other ways into town. I mean, we just came from the forest, and I haven’t seen any roadblocks on this stretch.”

  Clare shrugged. “Maybe they ran outta time to secure everything.” She sighed wistfully. “And carry away their dead.”

  “Well, whatever happened,” I said, creeping toward the heart of Hazlehurst, “there’s no way we’ll be taking I-55 North. Not from here anyway.”

  The entrance and exit ramps were simply too jam-packed, and the embankment too steep to safely attempt. We’d need to find another way north.

  “Knew it was a long shot,” George muttered.

  “Think getting gas here might be a bust, too,” Casey added.

  “No kidding,” I grumbled.

  As we passed a series of looted stores, we spied the origin of the distant flames. The closest gas stations were both on fire. Only the buildings for now, but I assumed the flames would soon spread to the pumps, causing tremendous explosions. Numerous cars and bodies blocked the entrances, so even if the stations hadn’t been aflame, we still wouldn’t have been able to reach them easily.

  Perhaps reading my mind, as she often did, Clare suggested we speed up. “Don’t wanna be here when those things blow.”

  “Good point.” I stepped on the gas, scanning each side of the highway.

  “I’m beginning to think there aren’t many survivors,” George said. “Wouldn’t they have tried to put out those fires?”

  I couldn’t hazard a guess as to what had gone down in the small town of Hazlehurst. Small buildings were charred and in ruin, larger structures sported smashed windows and missing doors, and most of the parking lots were packed with abandoned automobiles and ravaged corpses, rendering them potential death traps.

  Yes, all those possibly full gas tanks tempted me to turn off the highway and try swiping some fuel, but I feared getting wedged between two vehicles and being unable to reverse out of there.

  As with the interstate, nothing in town moved. No humans. No animals. No zombies. Nothing.

  “Yeah, this isn’t too creepy,” George muttered, channeling what all of us were likely thinking.

  I frowned. “I’m starting to wonder if all the towns along 55 are like this.”

  “Who knows,” Clare replied, her tone haunted and distant. “Maybe all the towns between here and Michigan are gonna look the same. Not just along the interstates.” She sighed sadly. “Unless you’re living in a cave somewhere, I doubt anyone’s escaped such a fate.”

  Clare had made a valid point. Our former pit stop had become a devastating sight. No doubt all of our previous haunts had succumbed to the undead invasion.

  “Anyway,” Clare continued, “George is right. Let’s not stop here.”

  “Hey,” Casey interjected, “maybe those have some gas.”

  I followed his gaze toward a Walgreens at the intersection of MS-28 and U.S. 51, on the opposite side of the road from the two ticking gas bombs. Vehicles filled the front lot of the trashed drugstore, but not so tightly that I feared getting us trapped. Along the side of the building, I spotted two hefty pickup trucks. One of them appeared to be crushed against a dumpster, and the other one seemed to be hung up on a modest statue, which had been erected in the grassy area between the parking lot and U.S. 51. Since it appeared that both vehicles were wrecked, not stopped due to lack of fuel, I thought there might be a chance the tanks still contained some gasoline.

  Despite a couple halfhearted protests from Clare and George, I pulled into the lot, snaked between the haphazardly parked vehicles, and stopped as close to the two trucks as I could—with my gas tank and converted sewage tanks facing toward them.

  After surveying the immediate area, I shut off the engine and turned to Clare. “I need to see if there’s any gas in those tanks.”

  She said nothing, but her pinched brow said plenty. My wife obviously didn’t approve of the impromptu detour.

  “It’ll be alright,” I assured her. “Nobody’s around. And if trouble comes, we can slip out the back exit.” I nodded toward the unimpeded turnoff from U.S. 51.

  “That’s what you said back at the campsite.”

  I winced.

  “I’ll watch your back,” Casey piped up, holding his pistol aloft.

  “And I’ll watch yours,” George said, picking up the Mossberg and checking the magazine tube for sufficient ammo.

  With her jaws clenched in determination, Clare rose from her seat and set Azazel’s carrier in her place. “Me, too.”

  I shook my head. “No, baby. Someone should stay here.”

  Her expression faltered. “But I can help.”

  Having taken Clare to the gun range on several occasions, I knew she could technically fire a pistol, rifle, and shotgun—just not as confidently as our two new pals. Also, while she would stubbornly deny it, I believed her mother’s recent death might’ve understandably rattled her too much to pull the trigger.

  “I know, but someone has to stay inside.” I handed her a spare set of keys and kissed her cheek. “Just in case.”

  Reluctantly, she resumed her seat as I headed toward the back to collect my hand-operated siphoning pump, a five-gallon jerry can, two sets of thin, clear tubing, and a couple of flashlights. Then, Casey, George, and I slipped out the rear doors.

  Both three-quarter-ton pickup trucks seemed comparatively new and, happily, free of occupants. With any luck, each had a full tank of unleaded gasoline.

  Heading toward the one on the grass, I noted the statue impeding it was a memorial to the eleven Hazlehurst citizens who’d perished in a horrendous tornado in January 1969. The historic plaque affixed to it also mentioned the widespread damage the F4 funnel had wreaked throughout the town.

  Since the community of Hazlehurst had seen fit to erect such a simple obelisk commemorating that particular tragedy, I could only imagine the one appropriate enough to mark the present disaster—if there were even enough residents left to memorialize, well, anything.

  “So,” Casey whispered, “how should we do this?”

/>   I hadn’t been able to pull close enough to either truck to transfer the fuel directly into my van. The tubing simply couldn’t cover the distance. Instead, Casey and I would have to take turns filling the jerry can and emptying it into the van’s gas tank as well as the converted black-water one, which were each concealed by a lockable panel on the driver’s side of my van.

  After explaining the plan to him, I connected each hose to a different end of my pump, then handed one to Casey—as well as my keys and the empty gas can. Once he had checked the undercarriage for any more undead stowaways, he unlocked the two panels, unscrewed the special caps I’d installed on the gas tank and black-water container, and slipped the tube inside the jerry can.

  Meanwhile, I released the fuel door on the crashed pickup, slipped my own tube inside the gas tank, started cranking, and immediately struck gold.

  “Awesome! It’s full.” I almost added how terrific it felt to encounter some good luck for a change, but I decided not to jinx myself.

  Casey grinned, then while George kept watch, her son and I took turns siphoning the gas from the pickup and transferring the fuel to my gas tank and former sewage receptacle.

  “Joe,” Casey asked at one point, “where do you think everyone went?”

  We each scanned the area around us, searching for any sign of life… or even some walking dead.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

  He nodded. The video-game glaze I’d often seen in his eyes had faded away—as if he’d finally transitioned into adulthood, with all the grown-up dread that accompanied it.

  The siphoning process took longer than I’d hoped, but half a dozen exhausting trips later, Casey and I had successfully drained both trucks. Probably nabbed about thirty gallons all told.

  Not a bad haul.

  I was grateful not only for the fuel but also for the relative ease of the process. Exhausting, yes, but fortunately without incident.

  In typical fashion, however, I’d just had my moment of gratitude when the gas stations finally exploded in quick succession, startling me and my companions and sending debris all over that part of town. Though far enough away to avoid taking damage, I still figured we’d overstayed our welcome.

  “OK, guys,” I said, shaking out the tubing, “that’s our cue.”

  The rear doors of the step van opened, and Clare leaned outside. “Time to go!”

  George backed toward the open doors, her weapon at the ready. Casey and I hastily gathered all the equipment, but while heading back to the vehicle, we heard a whimper, followed by a sneeze.

  Casey turned, looking past me. “I don’t think zombies whimper like that. Or sneeze.”

  Nodding in agreement, I pivoted toward the truck behind me. “Thought I made sure it was empty.”

  But Casey had locked his gaze on the dumpster beyond the truck. “The sounds came from in there.”

  An internal alarm—or just the knowledge gleaned from years of watching horror movies—warned me not to investigate.

  Nothing good can come from this stupidity.

  Fairly certain, however, that zombies didn’t utter such sounds—I ignored my intuition and set down my siphoning equipment, then unholstered my Glock and circled the truck. Casey told his mom to stay near the van, then raised his pistol and followed me to the far end of the dumpster.

  “There’s a body,” Casey said, aiming his weapon toward the ground, between the rear wheels of the pickup and the caved-in portion of the crushed dumpster.

  A decaying zombie, with half its guts leaking onto the pavement and no head in sight, lay in a puddle of its own filth.

  “Well, that’s lovely,” I quipped. “Wonder what happened to the head?”

  “Not sure I want to know.”

  Another sneeze sounded, as if taunting us. Casey was right—the noises had definitely come from inside the dumpster.

  Keeping a wary eye on our surroundings, we carefully approached the smelly trash receptacle.

  “Hello?” I asked, my tone apprehensive.

  When no sound emerged, not even another whimper or sneeze, I tried again.

  “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  Suddenly, a shrill, girlish scream erupted from inside the dumpster.

  “What was that?” George cried from the other side of the pickup.

  “Just stay with Clare,” I hollered back.

  Then, before I could stop him, Casey gripped the closest lid and tried to lift it. But the damn thing wouldn’t budge. The pickup had pinned the dumpster to the brick wall of the drugstore and crumpled its metal side against the lids.

  “That’s not gonna work,” I said. “The crash crimped it shut.”

  As I glanced toward the pickup, hoping to find a helpful tool in the backseat, I heard movement inside the dumpster, like someone scuttling backwards, followed by more shrieks.

  “Get me outta here!”

  Muffled and tinny, the voice unmistakably belonged to a teenage girl.

  “Hang on!” I shouted back, opening the back door of the pickup and searching for something, anything, that would enable me to pry open one of the lids.

  “Hurry! Please!”

  “Why don’t we just push the truck away?” Casey suggested.

  “That won’t help… but this will!” I emerged from the backseat, triumphantly gripping a crowbar.

  I wedged the business end of the tool between the lid and the rim of the dumpster, then together, Casey and I pressed the lever down with all our might until the lid finally popped upward. The crowbar clattered to the ground, Casey swung the lid against the brick wall, and we instinctively hopped backward, in case an undead surprise awaited us. When nothing tried to escape and feast upon us, we flipped on our flashlights and peered down into the half-filled bin.

  Beyond the rotting food, discarded packaging, and miscellaneous garbage, a redheaded teenager crouched in the far corner. She wore tattered clothes, her hair was limp and greasy, and freckles—or was that dirt?—covered her pale face. She glanced at us, her eyes wide with fear, then screamed again and kicked at an oblong object in front of her.

  I squinted. “What the fuck?”

  It took a few seconds for me and Casey to recognize what had freaked out the poor girl. A severed zombie head lay on its side, clacking its jaws, as if attempting to bite her.

  “Well,” Casey muttered, “guess that answers one question.”

  Suddenly, the young woman dove over the relentless head and scrambled over the side. Casey and I instinctively stepped apart to give her room, but once she landed on the ground, she didn’t stop to introduce herself—just darted around the pickup and disappeared from view.

  “You’re welcome,” I grumbled.

  But clearly, she was as scared of the two strange men who’d sprung her from the disgusting prison as she was of the zombified head trying to nibble her toes.

  “It’s alright, honey,” Clare said from the other side of the truck. “Nobody here is gonna hurt you.”

  Until I heard her voice, I hadn’t even realized my wife had emerged from the van.

  With a shrug, I led Casey back to the vehicle, where we spotted the girl sobbing in Clare’s arms. George stood nearby, still on guard while offering words of comfort to the scared young woman.

  As Casey and I stowed the siphoning equipment, the two women tried to persuade the girl to join us. None of us could’ve stomached leaving her behind in the apparent ghost town.

  Though obviously frightened and seeking solace, she was understandably reluctant to climb inside a van—especially one that looked and smelled as bad as mine did—with four full-grown strangers. It took Azazel whining from inside her carrier to convince the girl that we were trustworthy, and a moment later, all six of us were secure inside the rig.

  Once again, having a cat on board had saved the day. I just hoped it wouldn’t go to Azazel’s head.

  Chapter

  22

  “This is either madness… or brilliance.” – Will Turn
er, Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)

  The young woman, who’d tentatively accepted a seat on our couch, visibly jumped when Casey locked the rear doors.

  “You’re safe,” George, who’d resumed her spot in the dining nook, assured her. “I know that’s hard to believe these days, but we honestly mean you no harm.”

  Casey joined his mom at the table, smiling awkwardly at our newest passenger.

  Clare and I had already taken our usual seats up front, but we’d both swiveled toward the back so we could face the girl.

  Azazel, still safely ensconced in her carrier, chirped at the newcomer. I glanced at Clare’s lap, surprised that our ferocious feline hadn’t hissed at her instead, but perhaps even she sensed the girl’s need for solace, not suspicion.

  The young woman gazed at the carrier, a tiny smile emerging.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” my wife asked. “I’m Clare Daniels. That’s my husband, Joe.” She pointed at me, then down at the carrier. “And this is our cat, Azazel.”

  The girl looked up at my wife, then scanned the rest of us before uttering a soft-spoken response. “Jessica. My name’s Jessica Horton.”

  Clare smiled warmly, a maternal gesture despite her lack of human children. “Nice to meet you, Jessica.”

  Once George and Casey had introduced themselves, my wife offered the girl an unopened water bottle, which she gratefully accepted.

  “Are you hungry?” Clare asked. “We have plenty of food.”

  Jessica swallowed a giant gulp of water. “Thanks, but I’m too nauseous right now.”

  “So, Jessica, what happened here?” I asked. “Where is everyone?”

  Her eyes watered, and a couple tears rolled down her dirty cheeks.

  “Give her a minute,” Clare urged, then glanced at the girl.

  Though itching to hit the road and finally find a place to bed down for a while, I didn’t want to unnerve Jessica even more by making a move too quickly. So, I waited with the others until she felt calm enough to explain.