Zombie Chaos Book 2

by Daniel Martone

  When I finally had a chance to breathe, I’d need to coax Azazel back into her carrier. Shit. I still hadn’t put Clare’s grandmother’s wedding ring — the one I’d rescued from Troy “the Pimp Daddy of New Orleans” Blanville — back in my wife’s jewelry box. The last time I’d checked, it was in the smallest pocket of my gore-stained jeans at the bottom of a garbage-bag-turned-clothes-hamper.

  Hopefully, I’d remember to do that before I reached Clare. For the moment, I needed to focus on the potholes, bodies, and other obstacles in our path — and try not to blow my temper every time the dangling passenger-side mirror banged into the van.

  Repetitive noises had always bugged me while driving. Mysterious crinkles, thumps, and taps grated on my nerves, and the arrhythmic clanging of metal-on-metal had slowly driven me insane since I’d whacked the mirror on a parking lot gate in the French Quarter earlier that day. It was especially annoying as I rolled along the uneven surface streets of New Orleans and her suburbs. If Clare had been in the passenger seat, as usual, I likely would’ve asked her to remove the useless mirror altogether, but for the moment, I had to channel my irritation and concentrate on more crucial matters. Like, driving and surviving.

  Traveling through the neighborhood sandwiched between Airline Drive and the Mississippi River was a completely surreal experience. Like many areas near major airports, it contained an odd mix of houses and businesses — some of which were still smoldering from inconvenient fires and some of which weren’t yet devoid of the living. As I wound my way through the varied streets, following other detouring motorists, I’d occasionally spot people peeking out their front doors or windows — residents who’d obviously chosen to stay in hiding, hoping to wait out the undead storm.

  Sometimes, I’d spy a few zombies trying to break into a house or storefront — presumably one still sheltering a tasty human or two. Other times, I’d come across a place virtually surrounded by the undead — perhaps twenty decomposing creatures pushing on the doors and windows, likely hoping to find a quick, defenseless meal inside. And sometimes, the living occupants under siege would try to make a break for it. Sadly, most of them wouldn’t even reach their vehicles before the ravenous zombies had overtaken them.

  All I (and the other motorists before and behind me) could do was to keep driving, our procession of vehicles passing the carnage as if it were just another weekday in the suburbs of New Orleans.

  Eventually, we’d wind our way back to U.S. 61 (at that point, officially known as Airline Highway) and then repeat the same detour whenever we’d encounter a group of ten or more zombies. Of course, alternate routes became less frequent in the rural stretch between Kenner and Laplace, so not surprisingly, it took me almost three hours just to cover thirty-six miles.

  I had a long way to go before reaching Baton Rouge, but unfortunately, I’d noticed the engine was heating up, even with the vents continuously blowing hot air in my face. My little trick was obviously not going to stave off the inevitable forever. My van’s busted radiator wouldn’t survive the rest of the trip to the state capital, and not for the first time that day, I regretted rolling over a broken pipe in the Tremé, just to avoid crashing into a burning, zombified Mardi Gras Indian.

  Jesus, I’m sweating my balls off, and for what?

  No wonder Azazel had vanished into the back of the van: it was fucking hot up front.

  Although daylight had begun to wane, and I hated the idea of roaming through a strange town after dark, I knew it was time to take a look under the hood and put my limited mechanical skills to use. I veered south of Airline Highway near Gramercy and weaved through the decimated neighborhoods until I found one featuring several tall, lengthy garages — with twelve-foot-high doors that could accommodate motorhomes, long-haul tractors, and the like. Most of the doors were sealed, but eventually, I spotted an open, empty garage large enough to fit my step van.

  “Looks like we finally caught a break, Azazel.” I slowed the van and turned into the driveway. “Let’s just hope your daddy can fix this damn thing, or we might not be going anywhere for a while.”

  Though I couldn’t bring myself to admit my greatest fear aloud, I worried the longer it took me to reach Baton Rouge, the less likely I’d see my wife (and my cat’s beloved mama) alive again. If Azazel could’ve spoken English (or I could’ve understood her feline tongue) she surely would’ve agreed with me.

  CHAPTER

  3

  “Well, now that is some fucked-up shit.” - Bill Pardy, Slither (2006)

  From the driver’s seat, I stared at the empty garage and considered the situation. My engine rumbled, the only sound in the seemingly abandoned neighborhood, and the hot air still blew in my overheated face. Although I’d pulled into a stranger’s driveway, the ass end of my step van remained in the street. I hadn’t yet committed to my impulsive plan. For all I knew, zombies or something worse awaited me inside the darkened house.

  My eyes flicked down to the temperature gauge on the dashboard. The needle twitched near the red zone. No time to dick around. I needed to make a decision.

  Like, right fucking now.

  I glanced in the mirrors and through the windows, but except for a few stumbling silhouettes farther up the road, I didn’t spot any nosy neighbors. The longer I delayed, though, the higher the probability that hungry zombies or greedy humans would hear my rumbling engine and make a beeline for me. Gazing through the windshield at the gaping garage in front of me, I waited a few more seconds, just to see if anyone moved or made a sound inside the attached house, but the former occupants seemed to be long gone. Or long dead.

  So, as the temperature gauge crept into the danger zone, and my engine threatened to overheat, I made the obvious call and guided my rig into the garage. I shut off the engine, and once the knocking and rattling had faded, the sudden stillness unnerved me. I even missed the ever-present soundtrack of gushing air through the vents, though I was grateful for the lack of heat.

  Despite my whore bath at Home Depot a few hours before, I was once again a sweaty, stinky mess. Also, that morning’s headache had returned with a vengeance — no doubt due to my varied injuries and aching muscles, the relentless hot air, and my extreme hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Not to mention the godforsaken mirror, continually clunking against the front right quarter panel. Like my own personal nightmarish version of Chinese water torture.

  And now I need another goddamn shower. Fucking perfect.

  I turned in my seat, searching the dimness for Azazel, but she’d hidden herself well. “Okay, kitty, I’m gonna step out for a minute. If I don’t do something about the radiator, we won’t be seeing your mama anytime soon.”

  It might’ve been my imagination, but I thought I heard a rustling sound in the stillness, and I could swear I saw a shadow shift at the rear of the van. Given her penchant for crinkly paper and plastic bags, it didn’t surprise me that my feisty cat had wormed her way beneath the tarp covering my arsenal of guns and other weapons. Of course, it wouldn’t have been my first choice for her.

  Wonderful. With my luck, I’ll get shot in the ass when I try to get her outta there.

  I’d rather have coaxed Azazel back into the relative safety of her carrier, but she’d certainly been through enough for one day. As usual, it was wiser to let sleeping tigers lie. Even little tabby ones.

  Hell, she had the right idea anyway: snooze away the stress, fear, dismay, and disgust. I wouldn’t have minded a nap myself. But sadly, I had no time for that.

  Hastily, I smeared some hand sanitizer on every surface I’d touched since my face-off with the Walmart zombies: the door, the lock, the steering wheel, the shotgun, even my own palms. Then, after chasing a couple aspirin with some diet soda, I gulped down a bit of water, crammed a chili chocolate granola bar into my mouth, and readied myself for more undead chaos. While I alternately munched and swallowed my measly dinner, I loaded the Mossberg with slugs from my backpack, chambered the next round, and slid my door open.

 
Gingerly, I climbed down from the vehicle and gazed around the dimly lit garage. It was tall, wide, deep, and spacious, with an immaculate workbench and mounted cabinets at the far end, sporting equipment along the sides, and plenty of room for my zombie-mobile.

  A muffled rustling drew my eyes to the rear of the van, where I spotted a few leaves scurrying across the blood-stained driveway. The cool autumn breeze that followed them was a pleasant respite from my stuffy van, chilling the sweat on my face, but if I didn’t have time to nap, then I sure as shit didn’t have time to linger in a stranger’s garage and savor the refreshing temperature drop.

  The sunlight continued to fade outside, and while no person or thing had yet ventured up the driveway, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the door wide open, inviting all manner of trouble inside. Especially since I planned to prop up the hood and delve into the inner workings of my van. The last thing I needed was to hunker down over the engine compartment and be so focused on my radiator that I failed to notice a mob of zombies or looters crowding inside the dimly lit garage and pinning me against the workbench.

  From the darkened street lamps and porch lights in the neighborhood, I surmised the electricity was out in Gramercy, just like in New Orleans, her suburbs, and the rest of zombie-infested America. So, I wasn’t looking forward to standing in an unfamiliar pitch-black garage — or attempting to release the door from its tracks and close it manually — but safety mattered most. Besides, I had an assortment of flashlights and lanterns in the van.

  This time, in fact, I had grabbed a small hand-crank flashlight from my backpack and tucked it inside my shirt pocket. I had a lot to learn about surviving the zombie apocalypse, but at least I was willing to glean a few lessons along the way. I didn’t intend to make the same mistake I’d made at Home Depot: entering a strange place without a light source of my own.

  Unfortunately, though, I hadn’t thought to flip the damn thing on, so as I stepped around the rear of my vehicle and headed for the garage door, I tripped over what turned out to be a solid shadow. Ungracefully crashing to the ground, I promptly smacked my knees against the pavement. In an instinctive attempt at self-preservation, I caught myself with the heels of my hands, but naturally, the shotgun slid from my grasp and skittered down the driveway, along with the useless flashlight that had tumbled from my pocket.

  Worse, though, was the fact that something had clutched my ankle. Something moaning and hissing. Presumably the “solid shadow” that had made me fall.

  I turned my head and found myself staring at the growling, squinting face of a mangled zombie. Since waking up in my courtyard that morning with a raging headache, I’d learned enough about the undead to suspect the unsightly creature in front of me no longer possessed an active brain. Still, he sure seemed to have more than hunger on his mind. In fact, if I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve thought he was giving me the stink eye. Considering his current condition, I couldn’t really blame him.

  While his bloody right hand had managed to ensnare my left ankle, he was the real trapped quarry. His left hand, after all, was lodged between the bumper and the rear of my van, and scanning the rest of him, I realized there wasn’t much left below his torso, except the shredded, goo-covered remains of his pelvis. Most zombies wouldn’t win any beauty contests, of course, but this one looked as though his lower half had involuntarily gone through a meat grinder or wood chipper.

  Although I didn’t recognize him, I could only assume he was one of the zombies that had collided with the rear of my van as I’d screeched down the alley behind Walmart. The thing that I’d initially suspected I was dragging. Shit, that meant he’d traveled quite a long distance with me, from Harahan to Gramercy. No wonder I’d received a few bizarre looks from passing motorists. I’d just figured it was the bloody state of the van, not the fact that I’d had an unwelcome, ever-disintegrating tagalong hanging from the back bumper.

  Guess it wasn’t the leaves I heard a minute ago. Good job, Joe. Way to stay alert.

  As the putrefied zombie continued to groan, glare, and grip my ankle, a quick glance over my right shoulder informed me the other zombies in the neighborhood had gotten closer. A lot closer.

  Okay, enough of this bullshit.

  I yanked my ankle from the zombie’s clutches and scrambled to my feet. I needed to extricate my inconvenient tagalong from the van, but I didn’t want to use my shotgun. No need to call even more attention to myself.

  I scanned the shadowy garage for an appropriate weapon. With the help of the dwindling sunlight, I spotted a golf club leaning in the corner, next to the closed, pedestrian-only door beside the large retractable one. I sidestepped the disgruntled zombie and picked up the club. Turned out to be a 7-iron.

  “Serendipitous,” my wife would’ve said, since that had always been my best club… and her favorite word.

  Yes, I’m a golfer. Or at least I used to be. Don’t judge.

  A wave of nostalgia hit me as I gripped the club. I’d been playing golf since the third grade, back when my family had lived in Missouri. Basically, I had been a recreational golfer for about four decades of my life. I had countless memories of beautiful spring, summer, and fall days, tackling an assortment of eighteen-hole courses with my friends, my older brothers, and my parents.

  A few years before the worldwide zombie epidemic had destroyed everything, I’d even managed to convince Clare to take golf lessons, so we could add yet another pastime to our long list of shared interests. But as with movie theaters and fishing trips, I doubted we’d have much opportunity for golf in the days ahead. Sadly, I’d left all my clubs, even my trusty putter, in our French Quarter apartment. In the end, as much as I’d miss my old life, I could get a lot more mileage from shotguns and other firearms than my golf paraphernalia.

  The zombie hissed behind me, and I snapped back to the present.

  Fuck, I need some sleep. Ain’t got time for daydreams.

  Whenever I was having a particularly piss-poor round of golf, I could always count on my 7-iron. I rarely hit a bad shot with it.

  To prove I still had a few skills left, I raised the club over my head and brought it down as hard as I could. With a sickening crunch, the steel head cracked open the zombie’s skull, unleashing a horrid, rotten funk, and sunk so deeply into the ooze-covered brain that I couldn’t retract it. The creature’s eyes froze in place, and he groaned and hissed no more.

  Quickly, I used a spade to pry his hand from my back bumper, and then relying on the 7-iron, I dragged the body out of the garage and tugged it into the recently mowed lawn beside the driveway. After retrieving my shotgun and flashlight, I scurried into the garage and managed to pull down the heavy door. Just in time to avoid the moaning zombies headed my way.

  CHAPTER

  4

  “Oh, no tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering!” - Lead Cenobite, Hellraiser (1987)

  Using the little flashlight as a guide, I returned to the van, made a pit stop in my tiny bathroom, and grabbed my cellphone. Since that morning, I hadn’t been able to reach Clare via text message or phone call, and the silence between us had really begun to weigh on me.

  In our more than seventeen years together, we had collectively spent no more than three weeks apart. Most couples we’d known had thought we were nuts for living and working side by side, day in and day out. Pretty much no one could believe we’d successfully done it for almost two decades without driving each other insane. Both of my older brothers had divorced their wives after lengthy marriages, and I myself had gotten a divorce from my first wife, an ill-matched college girlfriend, in my early twenties.

  Clare and I were different, though: when we said, “I do,” we’d meant forever. We’d often joke that, given how much time we’d spent together, it felt like we’d been a cohabitating-turned-married couple for twice as many years as we actually had. Equivalent to thirty-five years for most partnerships. And we’d said that about ourselves in the best possible way. We were each other’s best
friend, favorite traveling companion, and most compatible partner in crime. I thought nothing — not low funds or health scares or meddlesome mothers-in-law — could tear us apart.

  I just hadn’t counted on being separated once the zombie epidemic had begun. Given that a friend of mine, far away in India, had warned me about the impending apocalypse and even offered me a timetable for its inevitable spread to America, I thought we’d had more time.

  That was how Clare had ended up eighty miles away from me on the night of Halloween, when the horrendous, zombified shit had hit the fan in the Big Easy. She’d gone to Baton Rouge to fetch her mother — or at least convince her to escape to northern Michigan with us. I hadn’t been pleased with her decision to venture there on her own, but I’d needed time to finish packing the rig, and I knew she’d never forgive herself if something had happened to her mother, no matter how stubborn, sanctimonious, hypercritical, and insufferable that witch could often be.

  But more than thirty hours after she’d left the French Quarter in a friend’s car and more than twenty-eight hours since I’d heard her voice (when she’d called to tell me she’d made it safely to her mother’s house), I felt a bit lost without her, like a part of my soul had flown elsewhere. In the time she’d been away, the constant ache of fear and loneliness inside my chest had only deepened.

  It had pretty much been the shittiest day of my life. I was fucking exhausted, my rig was busted, perhaps beyond repair (or at least my limited mechanical skills), and I still didn’t know if Clare was safe. Or even alive.

  True, she’d reached her mother’s house, but given how rapidly the violence and mayhem had spread throughout New Orleans and her surrounding towns, I doubted Baton Rouge was any safer. The six yuppies I’d rescued and dumped out earlier in the day had vocalized as much. That had been the reason, after all, for the near-mutiny and subsequent expulsion: they hadn’t approved of my plan to head to Baton Rouge to rescue my wife, so they’d begun scheming to commandeer my vehicle and venture to the Georgia coast instead. Hence, my gratitude for the gas mask and tear gas canister I’d remembered to stow beneath the driver’s seat.