Headlight beams flashed across the rear doors of the auto center. Jeni and Jason had obviously turned the Ford around and were working their way toward the giant hole in the wall.
Hoping Azazel was too scared to escape, I set the shotgun on my seat, sprinted toward the front entrance, grabbed the bottom of the door with both hands, and pulled it up hard and fast. I didn’t spot a single zombie in the immediate vicinity, though a group of them milled near the far corner of the building. Likely hearing the loud-ass door, one of them turned and noticed me, but luckily, he and his undead buddies were too far away to pose a problem.
I hurried back to the van, secured myself in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Before hitting the gas, I turned toward the murky interior of the van.
“Azazel, baby, are you in here?”
If I left Walmart without ensuring my cat’s safety, I’d never live to tell Clare the bad news.
But when Azazel failed to respond, I decided to pull out the big guns. As a New Orleans kitty, she’d always come running whenever she heard jazz or blues. So, I grabbed my phone, opened a folder of downloaded music, and blasted one of my favorite Tab Benoit tunes.
Sure enough, I heard a tiny feline meow, and then Azazel slunk out of the darkness.
“That’s my girl.”
As Tab continued to play, I drove the van through the service bay, out the open doorway, and into the parking lot. I veered around the zombie horde pouring from around the corner, and a few seconds later, the Ford Focus shot through the bay opening.
Jeni and Jason would live… for now. I hoped their friends would make it, too, but I had to focus on my own survival – and finish the journey to Baton Rouge, where, hopefully, Clare still waited for me.
Seconds later, I exited the parking lot, turned right onto Plantation Road, and looked for an obstacle-free route to Airline Drive. As usual, though, I was probably hoping for too much.
Chapter
4
“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 usually 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 had 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 poor cat 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. Then, after having rescued 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.
Despite my extreme hunger and fatigue, though, I couldn’t stop yet. 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, turning average people everywhere into monsters. And not just the undead kind.
If I had any doubts about that, my reluctant participation in the recent Battle of Walmart had proven that the current desperation and insanity knew no bounds.
But no matter what else came my way, 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.
By the time I’d escaped the Walmart parking lot, found my way onto South Clearview Parkway, and finally turned left onto Airline Drive (U.S. 61), the number of meandering zombies had diminished, but the amount of traffic had increased.
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, the 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. 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 dumbass, 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.
“OK, Azazel,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “Don’t know where you are now, but it’s gonna get a little bumpy in here.”
Though I’d managed to lure her out of hiding with Tab’s soulful tunes, she’d since disappeared again. When I finally had a chance to breathe, I’d need to coax my little scaredy-cat back into her carrier.
Shit. Shit. 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. While stopped in the middle of the Earhart Expressway, I’d fished it from the smallest pocket of my gore-stained jeans, which lay at the bottom of a garbage-bag-turned-clothes-hamper. But thanks to my unsettling encounter with that weird, vicious, hairy creature, I’d utterly forgotten to store it in its proper place.
Hopefully, I’d remember to do so before I reached Clare. Otherwise, I might have to answer a few uncomfortable questions – and ultimately reveal certain details of my crazy-ass journey that I’d planned to omit.
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, squeaks, and taps grated on my nerves, and the arrhythmic, metal-on-metal clanging 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 in lieu of that, 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 overtook them.
All I (and the other motorists before and behind me) could do was 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 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 obviously wouldn’t stave off the inevitable forever. The 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.
While twilight had descended on the region, 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 good use. So, 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
5
“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, 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 van 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. “OK, 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: snoozing 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 bloodstained driveway. The cool autumn breeze that followed them chilled the sweat on my face – a pleasant respite from my stuffy van. 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 th
e murky 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.
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. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought he was giving me the stink eye. Considering his current condition, I couldn’t really blame him.
Zombie Chaos (Book 2): Highway to Hell Page 5