Zombie Chaos (Book 2): Highway to Hell

by Martone, D. L.

  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 that one looked as though his lower half had involuntarily gone through a meat grinder or woodchipper.

  Although I didn’t recognize him, I could only assume I’d picked him up after barreling out of the Walmart parking lot. Not the first disgusting thing I’d dragged into the service bay – that distinction belonged to the former greeter – but a different, much more active zombie.

  For all I knew, he could’ve traveled quite a long distance with me, all the way 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 creature 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.

  OK, 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, people, 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. So, for nearly four decades of my life, I’d considered myself a recreational golfer. 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 and jolting vibrations in my forearms, the steel head cracked open the zombie’s skull, unleashing a horrid, rotten funk, and sunk so deeply into the ooze-covered brain 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

  6

  “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 started 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’d said, “I do,” we’d meant forever. We often joked that, given how much time we’d spent together, it felt as if 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 claimed that about ourselves in the best possible way. We were each other’s soulmate, 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, Jill – 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 bad happened to her mother, no matter how stubborn, sanctimonious, hypercritical, and insufferable that witch could often be.

  But more than thirty hours after Clare had 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 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.

  I still had to fix my radiator and find a way to the state capital, but first, I needed to check on my wife again. While I’d forgotten to charge my phone, it still had enough juice for me to dial Clare’s number and receive the same irritating message as before. Apparently, the circuits were still fucking busy.

  Goddammit.

  As an alternative, I tried typing out a brief text to her, giving her my location – and telling her I loved her. Not that either of us had ever questioned our affection for each other; we just said and wrote “I love you” more often than most people. After I hit the send arrow, nothing happened for a few moments. Perhaps the phone was searching for the closest network. Any kind of
network.

  I stood outside the van, in the near dark, staring stupidly at the screen, waiting for the text to reach the love of my life. Finally, I received the Sent notification and closed the messaging app. As I did so, I noticed the date on my phone.

  What the fuck? It’s November second?!

  All goddamn day, I’d thought it was November first, All Saints’ Day, the day following my first zombie encounter. Apparently, though, I’d lain unconscious in my courtyard for two days, not one. I had spent every lucid moment of the day believing the zombie apocalypse had arrived in the Big Easy only the previous night, when really the terror had come two nights earlier.

  Two days and two nights not knowing what had happened to Clare.

  Two fucking days and two motherfucking nights!

  No wonder the Summers trio I’d helped at Home Depot had given me such strange, mournful looks every time I’d mentioned going to Baton Rouge to pick up Clare. Given how long the zombies had been running amuck, it made sense how little faith Alvin, Ellen, and their granddaughter, Jenny, had seemed to harbor that I’d ever see my wife alive again. Bizarre comments that Troy, the strip club owner, and Marci, the stoned party girl, had said to me earlier made a helluva lot more sense, too.

  Still doesn’t fully explain the fucked-up scene at Walmart, but whatever. People be psychos sometimes.

  As did the overpowering smell of rotting flesh in the French Quarter and the fact that poor Azazel’s food and water bowls had both been bone-dry when I’d finally returned to our apartment following my first zombie encounter. My poor little girl had been wandering around our home for thirty-six hours, thirsty, starving, listening to the bloodcurdling screams outside, and wondering where the hell her parents were.

  Shit, she really deserves a few bites of tuna. Maybe even a whole can of her own.

  My eyes watered, and my chest tightened with every breath. It was even more imperative that I make it to Baton Rouge. Sooner rather than later. Too much time had already slipped by.

  With my eyes burning in the near-darkness, I reopened the messaging app and continued staring at the screen. I didn’t want to budge until I’d heard from Clare. Even if it was just a quick response to my text. The phone kept searching for a signal, draining the battery even more, but I never heard from her – and I never saw Sent change to Delivered beside my message to her, so for all I knew, she’d never even received it.

  OK, enough fucking around. I need to fix my goddamn radiator and get the fuck outta here.

  Pocketing my useless cellphone, I stepped to the front of my van and propped open the hood. Like the heavy garage door, the hood was certainly not quiet. It creaked loudly as it moved upward, but except for the groaning zombies in the driveway, I couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the inner door leading into the house. No human footsteps. No zombie moans. Nothing.

  Holding my flashlight above the engine compartment, I spotted the problem right away. Even with my limited skills, I could see a sizable hole in one of the hoses leading into my radiator. Not huge, but large enough to siphon away the radiator fluid and cause the engine to overheat.

  Crap. Now, what?

  During the two weeks I’d gathered supplies for the predicted end of the world, I’d considered food and water stores, medicine, weapons, ammunition, basic tools, batteries, generators, and other essentials, but I hadn’t given much thought to radiator hoses. So, while cranking my flashlight to brighten the glow, I took a spin around the garage and searched for anything I could use as a replacement hose. But after a full circuit around the tidy space, searching through every cabinet and drawer and along both side walls, I couldn’t find a damn thing that would work. Clearly, whoever had lived there had been smart enough to take any auto parts with them.

  Just fucking great.

  Chapter

  7

  “Itʼs not a monster. Itʼs not a monster. Itʼs just a doggy…” – Donna Trenton, Cujo (1983)

  Since I doubted my van would make it any farther down the road, I had no choice but to search the house for something that could replace the busted radiator hose, if only temporarily. At the very least, I needed the vehicle to carry me, Azazel, and our supplies to Baton Rouge, where I might then have the time and means to find a permanent fix. As a last resort, I could use the duct tape Alvin Summers had given me at Home Depot, but I preferred a more reliable solution, if possible.

  So, after resecuring the hood and ensuring I’d locked the side and rear doors of my vehicle (both to safeguard my stuff as well as my cat), I edged toward the innermost garage door, which was accessible via a short staircase. With my Mossberg at the ready, I tiptoed up the six steps, pressed my ear to the wood, and listened intently, but I could still hear nothing on the other side. After a moment of holding my breath, I carefully turned the knob, which was thankfully unlocked, pulled the door aside, and aimed the shotgun forward, the flashlight clutched between my left hand and the barrel of my weapon.

  The door had opened onto a cozy utility room, featuring a washer, a dryer, and an extra-deep, free-standing sink on one side and a folded ironing board and a well-organized shelving unit on the other. So far, the house appeared to be as neatly kept as the garage, and luckily, no trigger-happy humans or ravenous zombies had yet to greet me. Of course, my tour of the strange house had just commenced.

  Cautiously, I repeated my listening-opening-aiming routine on the second door and soon found myself in a kitchen. Scanning the room with my flashlight and shotgun, I discovered no one living and nothing undead waiting for me. But, unlike the tidy garage and utility room, the kitchen was a downright mess. In fact, so was the adjacent den. Everywhere I looked, I noticed random towels, papers, clothes, toys, framed photos, and other ordinary items strewn across tables, sofas, even the floor. In the harsh glow of my flashlight, I spotted a few overturned chairs as well.

  Frankly, I didn’t think anyone had looted the house. I could still see a variety of appliances, electronics, and other valuable items throughout both rooms. No, it looked more like the rightful occupants had been in a big, damn hurry to leave.

  Given the present state of the world, I could certainly understand such desperation. Not everyone had been blessed with foreknowledge of the worldwide zombie epidemic, and most people wouldn’t have prepared for such a ridiculous scenario anyway. Before Halloween, the majority of humans had likely believed zombies were the stuff of graphic novels and Hollywood screenplays. Some survivors were probably still in denial.

  An upright picture frame on a ransacked bookshelf caught my eye. It contained a photo of a well-groomed family of five, dressed in their Sunday best. I hoped the man and woman in the image had survived and made it to a decent haven, along with their three kids and the large shaggy dog posing in front of them.

  Who knows? Maybe they’re some of the lucky ones.

  Doubtful perhaps, but anything was possible. I was still alive, after all, and considering how many close calls I’d experienced in the past twelve hours or so, I probably should’ve died several times already.

  I decided to return to the kitchen and search the drawers and cabinets for any item that might serve as a makeshift hose, but as I turned, movement in my peripheral vision drew my focus to the sliding glass doors in the den. Lowering my weapon and flashlight, but keeping my ears alert for trouble, I stepped toward the doors and gazed into the family’s spacious, recently mowed backyard.

  In the haunting glow of the waning twilight, I spotted an attached deck, which featured an assortment of wicker patio furniture, a sheltered table, and a large barbecue grill. Another short staircase led into the yard, which contained a sturdy swing set, a trampoline, and other kid-friendly items.

  For a moment, my mind drifted to thoughts of my own childhood, playing in the yards of our various houses with my two older brothers. Since regaining consciousness outside my apartment that morning, I hadn’t spared much thought for my brothers, their daughters, and our parents, all of whom were spread around the co
untry, from Florida to Chicago. My main concerns had revolved around Azazel and Clare, but I certainly hoped the rest of my family was alright, too.

  Naturally, I had shared my friend Samir’s warning with all of them, but I doubted they’d believed me. I was, after all, a horror nut with a filmmaking background – not to mention the black sheep of the family. While my parents and brothers considered Clare a bit more pragmatic and definitely more responsible than I was, even her apparent trust in our prepping plan hadn’t done much to convince them. Admittedly, the notion of an impending zombie apocalypse was pretty insane, at least in the real world. I just hoped I’d get the chance to see them all again, even if I had to refrain from saying, “I told you so.”

  Man, I hope they listened to me for once.

  Recalling what had drawn me to the glass in the first place, I gazed at the Gothic-style wooden fence enclosing the backyard and, through the gaps, noticed a furry animal on the other side, trying to excavate his way beneath the slats. For an instant, I fretted it was another one of those hairy man-wolf monstrosities I’d seen on the Earhart Expressway – the one that had terrorized the six ungrateful yuppies I’d kicked out of my van. But, while squinting for a better look, I realized it was just a large, familiar-looking dog, similar to my brother James’s labradoodle or my parents’ long-deceased wirehaired pointing griffon. As if Benji had a bigger, darker cousin.