Fucking terrific. A repeat performance of the goddamn, flaming Mardi Gras Indian in the Tremé.
In the time it took Ray to shoot the other two zombies, the former baseball player had set one side of the foyer ablaze. I shot him again, this time in the forehead, but it was too late. I could already feel the heat of the flames. The fucking church was gonna burn.
“Crap, we need to hurry,” I told Ray. “No way we’re putting this out.”
The two sets of double doors leading into the rest of the church were presently closed, but based on the shuffling and moaning sounds coming from the other side of the doors, I assumed they’d been open at some point during the zombie apocalypse. Along the walls on either side of me stretched several benches, but unfortunately, the flames were encroaching upon the ones on my right.
Before we’d lost the opportunity, I spluttered out an idea. “Maybe we could create a corral of benches around the doors on the left, prop them open, hop over the benches, and let the zombies inside the church fill the corral. Then, if there aren’t too many of them inside, we can slip through the doors on the right and seal off the corral from inside the sanctuary.” I beamed, quite proud of my zombie battle tactics.
Ray turned toward me, his night-vision goggles making it difficult for me to discern his expression. “But we’ll be trapped inside,” he countered. “We won’t know how many more zombies are in da corridors an’ stairwells, an’ we might not find another way to get out.”
He might’ve shit on my brilliant idea, but he hadn’t yet deterred me. “If this fire spreads, we won’t be able to use this exit anyway.”
As Ray stared at the flames, shaking his head in dismay, the dire truth hit me.
Fuck. This fire’s gonna consume my van.
Ray must’ve read my mind because he turned to me and said, “OK, look, we do your plan. Only you drive off in da van an’ try to lead ’em away. Da van can’t be caught in da fire.”
“Fucking right, it can’t. No offense, Ray, but that van means survival for me and my wife. Besides, Azazel’s still inside.”
He nodded, seeming to comprehend that I wasn’t being a coward. I had proposed an idea, after all, to penetrate the sanctuary. I just hadn’t considered all the consequences. No way I’d endanger my precious zombie-mobile — or my beloved cat. Not even for a bunch of hapless humans trapped upstairs.
Before the flames could make the decision for us, we shifted all the benches between the two sets of double doors, creating a barrier that, once we’d opened the left-hand doors, would guide the zombies through the flaming foyer, out the church, and after me. I’d already played the role of Demented Pied Piper of New Orleans back at Home Depot. I just hoped I’d survive my encore.
CHAPTER
12
“Come and get it! It’s a running buffet! All you can eat!” - Shaun, Shaun of the Dead (2004)
As previously stated, I’ve never been particularly religious, and neither were my brothers. Once my oldest brother, John, had gotten his driver’s license, he’d started taking me and James to the arcade in lieu of church on Sundays — and none of us seemed to suffer from the deception.
Still, I felt somewhat guilty for setting fire to a Catholic church in Gramercy. That definitely hadn’t been my intention when attempting to put the zombified baseball player out of his misery.
Ah, well. Shit happens.
Besides, with the wall ablaze, I no longer needed the constricting night-vision goggles to see.
Before the flames reached the dark burgundy curtains that hung from the only two windows in the foyer, Ray and I ripped them from the rods and secured them above the double doors on the right. A moment later, Ray stood behind the curtains, his large frame mostly hidden from view. As soon as I opened the left-hand doors, nothing but a bunch of benches and two pieces of dusty, antiquated drapery would separate my new friend from a horde of impatient, ravenous zombies. I stared down at his boots, the only things presently showing. I felt bad about leaving him behind in a burning church, but when I heard Ray pump his shotgun, I snapped out of my momentary daze.
The guy truly had balls of steel. I just hoped that was enough. First and foremost, I wanted him to survive this crazy-ass rescue effort. But I couldn’t deny my second realization: if Ray died here, Clare and I would be stuck with his kids, which wouldn’t have been ideal for any of us. Don’t get me wrong: I loved my nieces, and I didn’t hate children in general. But Clare and I had never really wanted human kids of our own. More than anything else, we were cat and dog people — though Clare wouldn’t have objected to having a pet otter someday, and I wouldn’t have minded adopting the elephant with whom I used to play catch at Potter Park Zoo in Lansing, Michigan.
So, basically, this badass Cajun Marine needed to fucking live. At all costs. For him and his kids.
To help the cause, I even dragged a few of the dead zombies closer to the curtains, in lieu of covering Ray with zombie gore. I hoped the collective smell of the rotting undead would mask his fresher, more enticing scent from the zombies about to invade the foyer.
“Ready, Ray?”
“You bet,” came the muffled reply.
I moved around the barricade of benches, approached the doors we had “fenced off,” and grabbed one of the handles. “Now,” I yelled as I yanked open one of the doors.
Jesus Fucking Christ, we are so hosed.
It only took one glimpse of the sanctuary to recognize there were a lot more zombies inside than we’d originally thought. Of course, it required the zombies much less time to realize a human meal stood in the open doorway.
“Good luck, Ray,” I yelled as I darted along the benches and clambered inside the back of my van. “There’s a shit-ton of the fuckers!”
Rapidly, I moved toward the driver’s seat and tossed my shotgun and goggles onto the floor. I’d left the back doors of my van wide open, thinking the zombies would be more likely to follow me if they could smell me.
OK, maybe I’m not the smartest zombie battle tactician. So, sue me.
After all, like an idiot, I hadn’t even thought to start the van and leave the engine running before opening the sanctuary door. And naturally, when I turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. My chest tightened, and nervous sweat popped out along my brow. In a panic, I kept turning the key. Still, nothing.
Son of a bitch.
Although I’d made a lot of expensive improvements to my delivery-truck-turned-zombie-mobile, she was still a fairly old vehicle, and after all she’d already been through, perhaps her crapping out was inevitable. I just wish she could’ve waited until we’d reached our family compound in northern Michigan. Especially since I could hear a herd of zombies moaning and shuffling not far behind me, and with my van pressed against the foyer, the only place they could funnel was into my fucking van.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves and turned the key again. Apparently, the fifth time was the charm. The van fired up, and I immediately hit the gas pedal, flipped on my headlights, and cranked the steering wheel to the left. While Ray and I had been busy in the church, several zombies had cautiously neared my van — probably enticed by the possibility of food but, like Frankenstein’s monster, too scared of the flames to get too close. Unfortunately, though, they were now in my way. Without hesitation, I whacked into several of them and crunched over piles of carnage as I rolled along the circular driveway. My poor van would be hell to clean, but at least I had escaped certain death.
Glancing over my shoulder, though, I realized I wasn’t completely in the clear. Backlit by the flaming foyer, several zombies ran toward the van, one of them had managing to grab a hold of my rear bumper. Clad in dirty overalls and clearly missing his lips, he tried to claw his way inside.
I jolted the van to the right, hoping I could shake him loose as I veered around the circular driveway, but he was one determined fucker. As I turned onto Church Street, a gunshot pierced the darkness, and when I looked back to check on my tagalong,
I noted the zombie’s entire head (not just his lips) were gone. I was still dragging the body behind the van, presumably because his arm was caught in the bumper, but at least he was no longer trying to kill me. Another shot rang out, the arm exploded, and the body tumbled into the street, leaving just a hand and part of a forearm flopping in the night air.
Scratch what I thought. Adopting Ray’s kids would be like having a small army. That kid’s an amazing shot.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, I slowed down to fifteen miles per hour again and started to repeat my earlier routine: honking the horn and driving around in a circle, along the driveway and Church Street and back again. This time, however, I didn’t have a badass ex-Marine with a shotgun in the back. So, I had to keep glancing awkwardly between the windshield and the rear, just to make sure no zombies climbed aboard.
As I made my second pass around the driveway, I noticed quite a trail of undead creatures behind my van. By the time I’d made my third trip past the burning church entrance, I could still make out the open doors leading into the sanctuary, but I could no longer see Ray’s boots beneath the now-flaming curtains. Although it pleased me to think he hadn’t been eaten or burned in the fire, I knew, from the sound of gunshots inside the sanctuary, that not all the zombies had vacated the church. In his effort to shoot as many as possible, Ray hadn’t even had a chance to shut the doors, as he’d planned.
Abruptly, I heard a beep coming from my shirt pocket. Someone was signaling me via my walkie-talkie. Either Ray or the kids.
I removed the walkie-talkie from my pocket, turned up the volume, and said, “This is Joe. Go ahead.”
“I’m almost to da offices, but we’re gonna have to go out through one of da top-floor windows. Too many downstairs for us to handle. Over.”
I pressed the talk button and said, “I’ll get the kids. Then, if you can get everyone out the windows and onto the lower roof, I think I might have an idea.”
I turned onto Church Street before remembering walkie-talkie protocol. “Over,” I added.
“Gotcha,” Ray replied. “Talk to you in twenty. Out.”
I took one more pass around the driveway, to see if I could lure a few more zombies away, and then gunned it down Church Street. When the undead creatures following my van failed to catch me, they quickly lost their enthusiasm and headed back to the church. I could only hope the flames were enough to deter them from reentering the building and pursuing Ray upstairs.
As I retraced my route down East Second Street and North Millet Avenue, it occurred to me that I no longer had hot air blasting in my face. With all the preparation and excitement of the past hour or so, I hadn’t had a chance to enjoy the simple pleasure of driving without having to worry about the radiator. Based on the gentle snoring inside the covered carrier, Azazel was grateful, too — or else, she was too exhausted to give a shit.
CHAPTER
13
“I came here to do something. So, we are gonna stand around, or we are gonna do something?” - Pillsbury, Land of the Dead (2005)
As I pulled alongside the house where we’d left Frankie and the kids, I could see Travis and Nicole were already packed up and waiting for me near the edge of the roof. After helping them lower the ladder to the ground, I braced it as they scurried downward, and together, the three of us waited for Frankie to leap down onto the roof of my van.
I glanced at the kids. I didn’t have to tell them their dad was still inside the church, working his way toward the offices. They had one of my walkie-talkies, so they’d heard his last report with their own ears.
Most children would’ve been freaked out by the idea of their father being trapped inside a burning church, surrounded by flesh-eating zombies. But not these two.
True, Nicole didn’t look as carefree as most girls her age. Though she stood several feet from my headlight beams, she seemed a bit paler than when I’d met her in the Hamiltons’ garage. Still, even at eight years old, she remained calm. No tears yet shed.
Still, I was delighted to see her smile when Frankie leapt from the roof of my van into my extended arms.
I huffed. “You’re heavier than I expected. Thought you were more hair than muscle.”
Frankie licked my face in response, and Nicole actually giggled.
Then, there was Travis, who, at fourteen years old, already behaved like a seasoned Marine. As soon as I’d set Frankie inside the van and detached the bungee cords from the rear doors, the boy helped his sister climb aboard, slid their gear across the floor, and kept watch while I clambered inside. With impressive speed and agility, he followed me into the van, closed one door, and reached for the other one just as a random zombie (no doubt attracted to the lights and gunshots) careened around the corner of the house and took a swipe at him. Without hesitation, Travis pulled his pistol from his hip holster, put a bullet right through the creature’s left eye, kicked the corpse to the ground, and then closed and locked the back door.
Fucking kid’s as hardcore as his old man.
Before any other zombies could stumble upon us, I shut off my headlights, donned the night-vision goggles, and reversed over the dead zombie. As I backed onto North Millet, the walkie-talkie beeped again. For how little they’d cost me, the devices had a pretty decent range. During the two weeks I’d spent readying for the impending apocalypse, I’d often relied on the recommendations of other RVers and doomsday preppers. The purchase of my four walkie-talkies had directly resulted from one such recommendation, and as with many of the essentials I’d bought, I was exceedingly grateful for other people’s expertise and willingness to share information… even if most of the folks with whom I’d corresponded hadn’t believed me about the zombie epidemic and were likely dead by now.
“Sitrep,” Ray said. “Over.”
I stopped the van, squinted at the walkie-talkie, and then looked over my shoulder at Travis, who sat with his sister at the dining table.
He chuckled at my confusion. “Situation report,” he explained.
While I’d often heard the term sitrep in various movies and TV shows, I’d never actually used it or even looked up the definition before. That was the sort of thing Clare usually did.
Nicole giggled again, and I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
I continued toward East Main Street, pressed the talk button, and said, “Hi, Ray. Frankie and the kids are in the van, and we’re back on the road. We’ll be there in a minute. If you can bust out those windows facing the parking area, I can pull the van alongside the church, and you can all drop onto my roof. Over.”
Luckily, the survivors were huddled inside an upper office that overlooked the rooftop of a single-story addition to the building, so if they could find something to break the glass of the two slender windows I’d mentioned, they might just be able to escape before the entire fucking church burned down around their ears.
“Sounds good,” Ray replied. “Only one problem… we got an injured man up here. Over.”
Crap. If by injured, Ray meant the guy had a zombie bite, the situation had become a lot more complicated.
“Maybe you could lower him down first,” I said, “and then the rest of you can hop down. Over.”
“Might just have to carry him myself. No matter what, we’ll bust out da windows now, so we’re ready. Over an’ out.”
I neared Church Street and removed my goggles.
Good news: the flames have spread, so I don’t need the goggles anymore. Bad news: uh, well, the flames have spread.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Joe?” Travis asked.
What isn’t, I thought, then said, “What do you mean?”
“You frowned when my dad said someone was injured.”
Real nice poker face, Joe.
Despite the goggles, the kid had still read me like an open book.
“I’m not sure,” I stalled. “Let’s just get your dad and the others outta there before the whole damn church burns down.”
I turned onto Church
Street and stopped the vehicle. Shit. It looked as though even more zombies had amassed outside the burning building. Either the intense glow of the spreading fire had lured more of them to the scene or the heat of the flames had chased others from inside the church. Either way, the rescue would definitely not be a cakewalk.
So, here was the actual sitrep: Ray and his pals were currently on the second floor of a burning church, the front third of which was engulfed in flames. Zombies poured from the dilapidated church entrance. Many of them were on fire, but as with the Mardi Gras Indian, that hadn’t stopped them yet. I was planning to drive right through the horde, across the lawn, not far from the office windows so that Ray, the super Cajun Marine, could help lower a bunch of trapped people onto the roof of my home-on-wheels.
Seriously, how do I get myself into these fucking situations?
In a fourteen-hour period, I’d encountered more deep-shit scenarios than I had in all of my forty-five years on the planet. And I was still about forty-five goddamn miles away from the love of my life.
CHAPTER
14
“Run for it? Running’s not a plan! Running’s what you do once a plan fails.” - Earl Bassett, Tremors (1990)
While surveying the bizarre scene, I couldn’t help but wonder… if the eyes of a zombie on fire melted away, would it still be able to sense fresh meat nearby?
Normally, I would’ve said that zombies could smell living humans even better than they could see and hear them. But many of the undead creatures presently stumbling across the circular driveway, grassy lawn, and parking lot were rather preoccupied. In fact, at least half of them seemed to be ablaze. Silhouetted by the flaming church behind them, they were flailing their limbs, swiping at each other, and banging into their fellow undead creatures like steel balls and plastic flippers in a malfunctioning pinball machine. Naturally, they also happened to be spreading the flames to other hapless zombies.
Zombie Chaos Book 2: Highway to Hell Page 7