I hastened down the remaining stairs and stepped over the rancid, motionless bodies of Tim and Sharon. Beyond the cacophony of moans, groans, meows, and barks, I could no longer hear Jenny’s bellowing. Not necessarily a good sign. Stiffening my back against the wall and shifting my focus toward the catwalk, I noticed she was pointing the flashlight down an aisle directly ahead of me. She might not have been the most reliable back-up shooter, but at least she hadn’t abandoned me altogether.
Her silent signal gave me just enough time to lock eyes with the approaching zombie, swing the shotgun upward, and fire. Because the former male employee had been at least six and a half feet tall — about eight inches taller than I am — my aim was slightly off. Instead of blasting his brains, the slug blew an enormous hole through his neck, severing his head from his body. Both dropped to the concrete floor, but while the body stopped twitching immediately, the head continued rolling toward the rear doors, which likely led into the storage area.
Jenny’s flashlight beam pivoted toward a spot two aisles away. Gazing around to ensure she hadn’t missed any closer zombies, I headed toward the place she’d indicated. Unfortunately, though, the blood-covered floor had become as slick as an ice-skating rink. My sneakers slipped, and I slid across the concrete, losing my grip on the shotgun in the process.
“Look out!” Jenny yelled, a bit too late to be helpful.
Sliding past my destination, I just missed colliding into an overweight woman, sporting a fuzzy pink sweater covered in embroidered felines. Yep, an actual zombified cat lady grasped the air above my head as I sailed past her.
I crashed ungracefully into a cat litter display, righted myself as quickly as possible, and leaned against the pile of containers. After grabbing the .38 from my holster, I aimed the barrel at the cat lady and unloaded the remaining two shots. Luckily, I managed to hit her in the head twice, ending her flesh-eating days.
Since my .38 was now empty, the shotgun lay who-the-fuck-knew-where, and at least a couple zombies remained in the store, I didn’t exactly love my odds of survival. At least the crowbar still hung from my belt.
Hastily, I shoved the .38 in my holster, but before I could rise to my feet, I heard a terrified caterwauling, followed by a shrill human scream. Although both sounds had come from the back of the sales floor, I instinctively glanced toward the catwalk. Jenny was no longer up there — and she wasn’t on the stairs either.
A few seconds later, I heard half a dozen gunshots coming from the same place I’d heard the scream. While I’d been crashing into the litter containers and taking out the cat lady, Jenny had apparently darted across the catwalk, leapt down the stairs, and bolted along another aisle.
When I finally scrambled to my feet, I managed to find the Mossberg under an aisle shelf. Quickly, I retrieved it and headed in Jenny’s direction. Another half-dozen shots exploded in the store — basically, all of the bullets in the damn gun I’d lent her.
When I reached the cat food section, I discovered Jenny standing in the middle of the aisle, both arms extended, the empty .9mm still gripped in her hands. The flashlight rolled at her feet, where she’d likely dropped it, the beam illuminating a horrific scene several feet away. Two male zombies, their heads a mangled, bullet-riddled mess, lay on either side of a partially eaten feline, with a punctured bag of kibble in the distance.
“Holy crap, Jenny. What happened here?”
At the sound of my voice, she lowered the gun and turned to face me. Even with her puffy eyelids and tear-stained cheeks, I could see she no longer wore the expression of shock and dismay I’d seen upstairs. Her clenched jaws, flared nostrils, and steely eyes all pointed to one foregone conclusion: she was seething with anger.
“I saw movement off to the side. Realized Francis, the store’s cat, had torn into a bag of kibble. He was probably starving, the poor thing. The two zombies were headed toward him. I tried to get to him in time, but they must’ve cornered him.”
“Dammit,” I said, taking a closer look at the eviscerated calico. “That’s terrible.”
“He had free reign over the place,” she said, sniffling again. “People loved to visit with him. He was so sweet. And with all that’s been happening around here, he was probably so weak and scared.”
“I’m really sorry,” I told her with all sincerity, hoping Azazel was still safe in her carrier. “But we need to make sure there are no other zombies here.”
Following a moment of renewed catatonia, she nodded in compliance. Then, once we’d reloaded our weapons with the bullets and shells I’d crammed into my pockets, we combed the rest of the store: up and down each aisle, across the bodies and debris, even in the adjacent rooms. Luckily, we only found three additional zombies: a man pinned beneath a pallet of dog food in the rear storage area, a boy wedged behind a vending machine in the employee break room, and a woman locked in the wheelchair-accessible stall in the ladies’ restroom.
The first two had likely been trapped on purpose, but I suspected the woman, after receiving a bite on her forearm, had hidden in the bathroom, where she’d eventually turned. Sad as the situation was, we promptly put all three out of their misery.
Honestly, I was surprised we had found so few zombies in the Pet Mart. Given all the corpses and body parts we’d discovered, we knew several victims had endured too much brain trauma to reemerge as the undead. But still, I thought it would take us longer to secure the store. Perhaps some reanimated victims had wandered outside when the automatic doors still functioned.
After reloading our weapons again and ensuring no zombies remained, we checked on the cats and dogs that Jenny, her grandparents, and the other Humane Society volunteers had brought for the adoption event. Happily, all dozen of the remaining animals had endured their ordeal. Although blood and gore stained the area around the kennels, the zombies obviously hadn’t figured out how to open the latches — and frankly, the animals seemed grateful to encounter people not trying to eat them.
After cleaning our hands and forearms with some hand sanitizer near the registers, we gave the cats and dogs some fresh water and kibble, then quickly checked the other critters in the store. The gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, rabbits, and turtles had all survived in their terrariums. Even the tropical fish — whose fishtanks were still powered, probably by a backup generator — had made it through the early stage of the zombie apocalypse. No less overjoyed than Jenny, I was also grateful our death-defying journey had been worth it.
Before returning to Home Depot, we decided to secure the adjacent shops and restaurants, too. As with similar complexes, a back corridor linked all of the establishments. When we opened the door leading to it and illuminated the dark hallway with our trusty flashlight, I wasn’t terribly surprised to find a couple zombies waiting for us.
Two Vietnamese cooks, each sporting blood on their white aprons and ragged neck wounds, had apparently hidden from the madness in the rear corridor, only to succumb to their injuries. From the look of their decomposing, bloodless faces, I assumed they had yet to taste human flesh. Naturally, I had no intention of being their first meal as zombies.
After taking them out with two well-placed bullets, we cautiously checked all six establishments. While the Vietnamese restaurant and adjacent gaming store contained several zombified employees and customers, the two clothing shops were devoid of the living or the dead, likely closed when the zombie attacks began. Same with two of the restaurants that were strictly breakfast and lunch joints.
Once we’d scouted and secured all six places, we returned to the Pet Mart, headed to the catwalk, and ventured toward the roof. No doubt Jenny’s grandparents had heard all the gunshots and were still anxiously waiting for their granddaughter’s safe return.
Chapter 29
“Donʼt ask me why I canʼt leave without my wife, and I wonʼt ask you why you can.”
– David Dutton, The Crazies (2010)
When Jenny and I emerged from the dark stairwell into the afternoon sunlight, we had
to give our eyes several seconds to adjust to the brightness. Sure enough, Alvin and Ellen were waiting on the opposite roof. As soon as they spotted their granddaughter, the tension visibly drained from their faces.
Several bulging plastic bags surrounded the old couple’s feet. Apparently, while Jenny and I had been on our zombie-killing mission, her grandparents had ventured downstairs to gather some requisite cleaning supplies and water bottles for our next task: clean-up and sanitation.
Although eager to reach my wife, I didn’t want to abandon the Summers clan just yet. So, after coaxing Ellen across the makeshift bridge, I left her with Jenny on the roof of the Pet Mart and assisted Alvin in lugging the supplies between buildings. Luckily, our recent ruckus had lured most of the zombies to the front of the pet store, dramatically reducing the size of our ravenous audience in the access road. Crossing the bridge was now significantly less distracting.
Once all four of us had safely reached the roof of the Pet Mart, we ventured downstairs to make the stores and restaurants more livable. While I didn’t have time to help them tidy and sanitize every nook and cranny, I did lend a hand with two major tasks: clearing out a supply closet and hauling the corpses and body parts (even that of poor Francis) there for temporary storage.
By then, it was time for me to hit the road again. So, the four of us crawled back across the bridge. Even Jenny made it without incident. Perhaps she was simply too exhausted to be scared.
Taking her earlier advice, I crept back into the van for some toiletries and a change of clothes and shoes, then tried to make myself presentable in the men’s bathroom of Home Depot. Not easy without running water, but hand sanitizer, dry shampoo, deodorant, and mouthwash worked a bit of magic. I stuffed all of my filthy items into a garbage bag and lugged it back to the contractor entrance, where the Summers family patiently awaited me.
Although Alvin seemed to have a solid plan for making use of the adjacent buildings and organizing the supplies we’d found during our clean-up duties, he needed just one more favor from me. So, after helping him with some necessary preparations, I was finally ready to leave.
Back in the van, I stowed my shotgun, bloody clothes, and supplies (including a couple ponchos I’d found on the floor of Home Depot). Then, I sprayed any areas I’d touched with either 409 or Febreze and hung the pine-scented air fresheners on the heating vents.
Near the contractor entrance, I gave the Summers clan some extra ammo and told them to keep the Beretta, derringer, extra shotgun, and flashlight. Yeah, I could’ve given them even more weapons, but frankly, I wanted to make sure Clare and I were well protected on our dangerous trek northward.
Luckily, the Summers family seemed to appreciate the guns — and all the assistance I’d offered them. So much so, in fact, they ended up parting with a couple rolls of duct tape from the cache of supplies they’d managed to assemble prior to the mass looting.
“I know you don’t have time to fix your radiator yet,” Alvin said, “but maybe this will help when you get where you’re going.”
I accepted the tape and heartily shook his hand. “Thanks, Al. I hope everything works out for you and your girls.”
“No, thank you, Joe,” Ellen said as she leaned forward to kiss my gore-free cheek. “We couldn’t have done all that without you.”
“Yes,” Jenny agreed, pecking me on the opposite cheek. “Thanks for everything. Especially helping to save the animals.”
In spite of my cantankerous ways, I was pleased to have aided the family. Frankly, part of me wanted to stay with the Summers clan a while longer. My headache had returned with a vengeance, and I could’ve used some sleep.
But my Home Depot stop had already delayed me longer than necessary — and I was no closer to repairing my busted radiator (or my dangling side-view mirror). Besides, I needed to do one last favor for Alvin — while he still had enough natural light to accomplish his task.
“Well, guys,” I said, edging toward the glass doors, “I should hit the road. Good luck to the three of you.”
“You, too,” Jenny said. “I hope you find Clare.”
“I will,” I assured her. “That’s not even a question.”
She smiled sadly, and I turned away to avoid contemplating her expression.
After prying open the entrance one last time, I did a brief zombie check, unlocked the passenger-side door, and climbed past Azazel. I almost introduced her to the Summers family, but she’d already been rattled enough. Even though Alvin, Ellen, and Jenny adored animals, my cat had never been particularly friendly to strangers on a good day — much less a day where she’d endured multiple rollovers and innumerable zombie threats.
I set the crowbar and duct tape on the floor, sandwiched beside the Mossberg and my go-bag. Out of sheer habit, I made sure I’d slipped my wallet in the back pocket of my fresh jeans — not that credit cards and IDs mattered anymore. Then, I chased down a couple aspirin with a swig of warm soda, waved goodbye to the Summers clan, and watched them temporarily close the glass doors before shutting and locking my own door.
After buckling my seatbelt and starting the rumbling engine, which alerted quite a few zombies near the Whole Foods Market, I blasted the heater and slowly drove away from Home Depot. As I plowed through any and all zombies in my diagonal path across the parking lot, I started blowing my loud-ass horn.
Part of my final favor to Alvin, the horn-blowing did exactly as expected: lured all the zombies away from the stores and restaurants. Of course, the hordes of undead were now following my van, as if it were some demented Pied Piper of New Orleans. Maybe it wasn’t the safest plan, but I drove just fast enough to stay ahead of the stumbling creatures and avoid any other undead obstacles converging from elsewhere in the parking lot.
By the time I reached the street, it looked as though Azazel and I were leading a parade of costumed zombies in the Intergalactic Krewe of Chewbacchus. Only the flesh-eaters behind my van were the real deal.
Carefully, I pulled onto Tulane Avenue, and instead of driving west as I’d originally planned, I turned right and headed back toward Broad. It would allow me a lengthier stretch to lure away the undead and check on my new friends’ progress. With nearly all the zombies in the vicinity trailing my grotesque honking van, I suspected Jenny and her grandparents were temporarily in the clear.
Through my passenger’s-side window, I could see Jenny and Ellen prying open the doors with some tools of their own, then I watched as Alvin drove a forklift we’d found in the lumber section through the entrance. While the ladies kept watch, he haphazardly veered toward the propane tanks, lowered the lift, and scooped up an entire bank. After dumping his load inside, he returned for another bank of propane tanks.
When it was finally time for me to pick up speed and ditch the zombies, several of which had gotten dangerously close to my van, I realized the spry old man had made three back-to-back loading trips and managed to haul nearly a hundred propane tanks, plus one large refilling tank, into the store. Enough fuel to last the small family quite a long time.
With their task complete, Alvin, Ellen, and Jenny closed the doors and waved at me through the glass. Waving in return, I stepped on the gas and left the zombie horde in a cloud of exhaust. As I headed down Tulane, I glanced at Azazel’s carrier and noticed her green eyes watching me through the slits.
“Well, those were some nice folks back there,” I said, my focus on the road again. “But it’s a good thing they decided to stay behind. I don’t think we could’ve fit the three of them, your mama, her mama, and all those animals in here after all.”
Besides, Azazel never would’ve tolerated it. As far as she was concerned, there was only enough room for one furbaby. Believe me, Clare and I knew who called the shots in our own small family.
Chapter 30
“Plans are pointless. Staying alive is as good as it gets.”
– Selena, 28 Days Later... (2002)
At the intersection of Tulane and South Broad, I turned right and h
eaded southwest. A few blocks later, Broad passed under the I-10, the highway I’d almost gotten stuck on. Gazing upward, I felt grateful I hadn’t continued to push my way along that route, which had literally become a parking lot.
Rather inconveniently, several zombies spotted me from the twenty-foot-high overpass and impulsively decided to belly-flop onto the van, just as I drove beneath them. Luckily, they all splatted on the pavement behind me, and though I doubted any of them had survived the fall, I certainly wasn’t planning to stop and make sure. Besides, even if their skulls hadn’t split open on the asphalt, their broken limbs would likely guarantee they wouldn’t be able to chase me anytime soon.
Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I turned right onto Earhart Boulevard and immediately ran into a small traffic jam. Shit. So much for my grand plan.
Apparently, numerous residents were still alive and attempting to flee the city. To make the situation worse, plenty of zombies wandered between the vehicles, slowing down our progress even more.
I glanced at the temperature gauge on my dashboard and grimaced. While the stop at Home Depot had taken much longer than intended, it had also allowed my radiator to cool down a little. Naturally, I still had to run the heater to keep the temperature in check, and though that little trick had worked since leaving the Summers clan, it definitely wasn’t foolproof.
As I came to a screeching halt behind a line of cars and trucks and watched the temperature gauge steadily rise, I realized the van would still overheat if I didn’t keep moving. Hell, if the motorists in front of me didn’t move their asses, we’d likely all be eaten anyway.
As soon as possible, I turned off Earhart and weaved my way through the pothole-riddled streets of a decimated industrial neighborhood. Since few motorists had opted for a similar detour, I only had to contend with an occasional pack of the undead.
Zombie Chaos Book 1: Bloodbath in the Big Easy Page 15