Zombie Chaos Book 2: Highway to Hell

by Daniel Martone

  Zombie Chaos

  Book 2

  Highway to Hell

  by

  Laura and Daniel Martone

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Survive the Zombie Chaos

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018

  Laura and Daniel Martone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors — except for brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, and individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, visit the authors’ website: themartones.com

  For George... Thanks for everything you gave us!

  CHAPTER

  1

  “They may not seem like much one at a time, but in a group, all riled up and hungry… Man, you watch your ass.” - Morgan Jones, The Walking Dead (2010)

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel with renewed frustration.

  In my never-ending effort to flee the New Orleans area, I’d hoped to follow Earhart Expressway to Clearview Parkway, which would’ve entailed a brief trip to Airline Drive. But thanks to a pileup of abandoned cars, decaying bodies, and twitching zombies on the northbound exit, I’d been forced to head south on Clearview, the wrong goddamn direction from my intended target.

  I’d just passed the multiplex theater where my wife, Clare, and I had spent countless enjoyable hours together (one of many places we’d have to forfeit in this brave new zombie world) when I’d encountered what seemed like my hundredth traffic jam. For some inexplicable reason, numerous idiotic motorists had tried to escape the undead city by taking the Huey P. Long Bridge across the Mississippi River, a route that appeared to be jam-packed with charred vehicles and roaming zombies. Since I had no intention of getting my fortified step van stuck at the top of that narrow-ass bridge and risk plummeting into Ol’ Man River, I’d impulsively taken a shortcut, hoping to find an easy way to turn around and retrace my route north.

  As I’d long suspected, though, hope was a fucking four-letter word.

  To untangle myself from the traffic jam, I’d careened the wrong way down Jefferson Highway and pulled into a familiar Walmart parking lot. I’d visited that particular store many times during the decade Clare and I had called New Orleans home. Oddly enough, it was one of the few places that stocked my favorite locally made fishing lure, which had ensured me and my wife plenty of success while casting for speckled trout in Lake Pontchartrain and the bayous near the Gulf of Mexico. Yet another Louisiana pastime I’d forever miss.

  Goddamn zombie apocalypse.

  Unfortunately, my plan fell to shit when I noticed the ridiculous number of zombies and automobiles blocking much of the parking lot. Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me that, in the wake of an undead epidemic, many New Orleanians and local suburbanites had rushed to a Walmart in Harahan to stock up on supplies, only to find themselves overrun, bitten, and transformed into mindless carnivores. But due to the exhausting day I’d already had, my situational awareness wasn’t as sharp as usual.

  Afraid to get trapped by the ravenous horde, I’d immediately jerked the steering wheel to the left and made a rumbling beeline toward the alley that ran behind the store.

  “Sorry, Azazel,” I’d said, turning toward the cat carrier I’d secured in the passenger seat. “Daddy screwed up, but he’s gonna get us outta this mess.”

  Noting the carrier was empty, I’d recalled that, after successfully chasing some inconsiderate yuppie passengers out of my van with a tear gas canister, I’d released Azazel, my seven-year-old tabby, from her temporary prison — and at the moment, it was anyone’s guess as to which nook or cranny she’d decided to curl up inside for a while.

  That was when I found myself staring at a parked minivan, which inconveniently blocked my route about halfway down the rear alley. Cursing to myself, I slammed on my brakes to avoid a collision, but the next viable option eluded me.

  A quick glance in my one still-functioning side-view mirror informed me I had unwanted company. Lots of it.

  Apparently, at least one of the zombies in the parking lot (if not more) had noticed the careening meals-on-wheels that had ducked behind Walmart, and after that curious creature had shifted my way, many more had followed suit. A shitload of foul, undead monsters presently stumbled and trotted into the back alley, aimed directly for my van.

  Reversing out of there would be impossible. Given the narrow width of the rear access lane, I could never plow my way through such an enormous zombie horde. At most, I might’ve been able to squish a few of the relentless creatures and carve out a twenty-foot-long path before getting my wheels stuck in the carnage and my van surrounded by the countless predators that remained.

  Likewise, if I tried to plow through the minivan blockade, I’d risk getting hung up on the crushed metal and fiberglass — even with the steel bars across the front of the van. And then where would I be? Just as ensnared by the approaching zombies.

  Shit, they’re at least a hundred feet deep. Fuck. That’s a lot of goddamn pus bags.

  My only saving grace? The closest ones were still far enough away that I had a little time to deal with the situation. Maybe two minutes before the crowd would overwhelm my van, trapping me and my poor cat and ensuring we’d never see Clare again.

  With no time to spare, I grabbed my trusty 12-gauge shotgun, which I’d wedged beneath the passenger seat. Then, after ensuring the Mossberg was loaded, I climbed down from the van, slid the door shut (just in case Azazel emerged from her nesting spot), and rapidly assessed the problem before me.

  The vehicle blocking my path was parked at a perpendicular angle to the alley, its front grill pointed away from the building, as if the driver had been trying to turn the minivan around before his life had gone sideways. Due to the blood-drenched windows, I couldn’t see the interior of the vehicle, but I assumed no one was alive inside. Of course, that didn’t mean no one was moving.

  In fact, while cautiously approaching the minivan, I observed a pair of hands pawing at one of the side windows. Hard to say whether the sound of a moaning, hissing zombie horde or the prospect of fresh meat outside had roused the vehicle’s occupants, but either way, the frenzied fingers managed to wipe away enough smeared blood to allow me a glimpse inside the minivan. At least three figures jostled around inside: two in the front seats, one in the middle.

  Quickly, I slid open the side door and hopped backward, and a fat zombie, wearing a distinctive blue-and-yellow Walmart vest, tumbled from the minivan and onto the pavement. As he righted himself and stumbled toward me, I realized the zombie looked familiar. He had a round belly, shaggy hair, a scruffy beard, and tired half-moons under his eyes.
Given his wrinkles and graying hair, I assumed he’d been in his sixties before transforming into the rotting, blood-stained creature he’d become, and at some point in his time as a zombie, he’d gained yet another disgusting attribute: part of a large red nose was entangled in his beard.

  “Well, that isn’t yours,” I quipped as I raised the Mossberg and shot him in the head.

  Pumping another shell into the chamber, I watched him crumple to the ground. My focus drifted from the unsightly, goo-rimmed hole in his skull to the name tag on his uniform: Davey. No wonder he’d seemed so familiar: I’d often seen him at the front doors of Walmart, lazily greeting shoppers as they ventured into the store. Usually, he had a couple of old cohorts with him, two other Walmart greeters well past their prime. No doubt the pair of fidgeting zombies in the front seats of the minivan.

  Before the zombie infection had spread to New Orleans, none of the three guys had ever seemed particularly pleased with their jobs — or with one another, for that matter — and I’d always wondered how the disgruntled, bickering threesome had landed their greeting gigs, much less the same shifts. Some big-hearted manager must’ve taken pity on the downtrodden trio — and yet graciously refrained from subjecting other greeters to their bitter antics.

  Sorry, boys. I’m all outta pity.

  With a zombie horde breathing down my neck, I had no time to waste. I stepped over Davey’s motionless feet, opened the driver’s side door, and watched as another zombie stumbled out, falling to his knees. Dressed in khaki pants, a white Oxford shirt, and a blue Walmart vest, the former greeter was much slimmer than the first one. He had a small, angular face, with dyed brown hair, perfectly coiffed.

  Despite the decaying flesh and bloody streaks on his clothes, John (as his name tag read) was one of the tidiest zombies I’d yet seen. Well, except for the enormous chunk missing from his upper right arm. Given Davey’s blood-spattered beard, I suspected he’d taken the chip out of John. I just wasn’t sure if that had occurred before or after Davey had bitten off someone’s sizable schnoz. John’s nose, after all, was still intact.

  The trim greeter had started pushing himself to his feet when I pulled the trigger. With an explosive whop, the slug deepened the part in his hair, carved a ridge from his forehead to the back of his skull, and sprayed blood, brain matter, and black zombie goo all over the minivan and nearby pavement. John rocked backward from the force of the slug, then collapsed forward across Davey’s thighs.

  By the time I’d pumped the shotgun, the third zombie had crawled through the driver’s side door and emerged from the vehicle. Taller and skinnier than the other two, he only had a smattering of gray in his hair, but not surprisingly, he was missing much of his nose. No doubt, the rest of it was still entwined in his former greeting buddy’s beard. As a result, the last of the unfortunate trio was the most disgusting, with rivulets of awful, foul-smelling black zombie goo dribbling from his shredded nasal cavity.

  I glanced at his name tag. “Well, Shaun, looks like the end of your fucking shift,” I muttered as I aimed the shotgun.

  He responded by groaning and swatting at the barrel.

  “Sorry, Chief. Should’ve gotten a real job.” I retreated a couple of steps and pulled the trigger.

  It no longer mattered that his pal had bitten off his nose; the shotgun blast pretty much removed the rest of his face, and he fell backward across the other two greeters. More than likely, they’d sought refuge in the minivan after zombies had invaded their place of employment, but at least one of them must’ve been infected, resulting in the carnage I’d just witnessed.

  Well, you lived together, and you died together. Who can ask for more than that?

  With the groans and hisses loudening behind me, I turned to check on the horde’s progress. Fuck. Some of the creatures were faster than I’d estimated. I didn’t have much time.

  I stepped over the former Walmart greeters, peered around the sticky steering wheel, and noted the keys were still in the “on” position. Figuring the battery was likely dead and the stupid minivan wouldn’t start, I set the Mossberg down on the seat, slid the shifter into neutral, cranked the wheel all the way to the right, and pushed the vehicle as close to the building as I could. When the right headlight smacked into the concrete wall, I shifted the minivan back into park, reclaimed the shotgun, and darted back to my own vehicle.

  With the closest zombie only a few yards away, I slid open my driver’s side door and found myself staring into the wide, green eyes of Azazel, who’d apparently jumped into my seat while I’d been busy dispatching the trio of zombified greeters.

  “Jesus, kitty, you scared the shit outta me!”

  Hastily, I slid the shotgun onto the floor, hopped into the van, slammed the door shut, and engaged the lock. Ignoring Azazel’s disgruntled growls, I shoved her off my seat, turned the key in the ignition, and stepped on the gas pedal.

  While I hadn’t had time to push the minivan flush against the building, I had straightened it enough for my immediate needs. So, after rolling over the tragic trio, my rumbling, fortified vehicle managed to squeeze past the minivan and continue down the alley. Perfect timing, too, since I heard several loud thunks as the nearest zombies hurled themselves at the rear and sides of my step van. From the odd scraping sounds I discerned amid the thumps and moans, I also suspected I was dragging something via my back bumper, but I had no desire to stop the vehicle and investigate the situation. I just hoped it wasn’t one of the former Walmart greeters.

  Moments later, I’d exited the alley, turned right onto Plantation Road, and started looking for an obstacle-free route to Airline Drive. As usual, though, I was probably hoping for too much.

  CHAPTER

  2

  “Buckle up, Bonehead. Cuz you’re goin’ for a ride!” - Ash, Army of Darkness (1992)

  As lifelong horror, sci-fi, fantasy, and thriller fans, Clare and I could always find the perfect movie or TV quote to suit any occasion. Whether funny, sad, or weirdly insightful, such pop-culture references always managed to put even the scariest and most stressful situations into helpful perspective. But I’ll admit, not even my favorite shows could’ve prepared me for the terrifying (not to mention disgusting) shit I’d experienced since the zombie infection spread to New Orleans.

  The day after my first real-world encounter with the undead felt like the longest of my life.

  And it isn’t over yet.

  Since waking up in my courtyard at the crack of dawn, I’d said farewell to my French Quarter apartment and the few neighbors that remained; lugged my cat, Azazel, through mobs of zombies to retrieve my wife’s diamond ring and our fortified step van; made a perilous, radiator-busting journey across town; and even helped a few deserving folks along the way. Despite my extreme hunger and fatigue, though, beating a path out of the Big Easy (my beloved home for the past decade) was only the beginning of my epic battle for survival. The fucking zombie nightmare had truly engulfed the globe, and I’d need to keep fighting if I hoped to reach Clare in Baton Rouge and safely transport us both to our sanctuary in northern Michigan.

  After rescuing six ill-prepared yuppies near Xavier University, almost losing control of my vehicle to the ungrateful asshats, and unceremoniously dumping them in the middle of the Earhart Expressway, I’d hightailed my ass west, across the Orleans-Jefferson Parish line, and into Metairie, a sprawling suburb of New Orleans. By the time I’d escaped the Walmart parking lot, merged onto South Clearview Parkway, and turned left onto Airline Drive (U.S. 61), the number of meandering zombies had diminished, but the amount of traffic had increased.

  Just as I’d feared, I wasn’t alone in my brilliant plan to use an alternate route to escape the city. Many residents who hadn’t yet succumbed to the zombie invasion — and who’d instead managed to reach their cars and get the hell out of town — had also opted to avoid the parking lots that vaguely resembled Interstate 10 and the Huey P. Long Bridge.

  Shit. Sucks to be us.

  Still, th
e Airline route wasn’t nearly as crowded as the I-10 had been earlier in the day. In fact, I was able to travel at almost half the posted speed limit. Although I observed several vehicles slamming into the hapless zombies that wandered across the busy thoroughfare, the traffic, in general, continued to flow. My progress remained steady for a few miles — until, that is, a horde of zombies stumbled across the road, just past the eerily inactive Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport in Kenner. I instinctively lifted my foot from the gas pedal. Surrounding vehicles slowed down, too.

  But, naturally, there had to be at least one misguided moron who thought he could simply plow through fifty zombies. While the rest of us pumped our brakes and considered alternate routes, the jackass driving the flashy silver Corvette in the center turn lane actually sped up and made no effort to veer around the unsightly throng. Just like the desperate fools in horror movies who attempt to bust through menacing iron gates with their undersized cars, the Corvette driver merely managed to crush a few zombies and stall out atop a layer of carnage.

  “Fucking idiot,” I muttered, grateful I hadn’t attempted the same ill-fated stunt back in the Walmart alley.

  With little hesitation, the remaining zombies surrounded the vehicle and pushed against the windows until the driver’s-side glass cracked apart. Then, no doubt excited by the motorist’s subsequent flailing and screaming, the undead creatures dragged him through the jagged opening and gorged themselves on his flesh, brains, and innards. A horrifying sight, yes, and a small part of me felt sorry for the idiot, but I’d already witnessed too many awful sights to spare much sympathy for him.

  Meanwhile, smart, self-preserving drivers (like me, for once) took an immediate detour off Airline and ventured onto side roads instead.