Kevin. Such a normal name for such a waste of human flesh.
The side door beside the large retractable one might be ajar, but not so much that a zombie could’ve stumbled through the opening without widening the gap even farther. From the father’s comment, I assumed the family of marauders had entered the house via the garage. Since the smaller door had been closed when I’d parked my van, I figured they’d arrived after I’d ventured into the backyard.
Strangely, such a notion relieved me. Even though I’d been stupid enough to leave the side door unlocked, at least my situational awareness wasn’t so awful that I’d missed the telltale signs of footsteps, murmurs, and breathing when I’d walked through the seemingly empty house.
The kid peered curiously at the doorway. “I did close it, Paw… just like ya told me to.”
A new concern popped into my head. Azazel. With at least one (if not both) of the back doors of my van still gaping open, and the outer entrance of the garage ajar, the spry little feline could’ve easily escaped into the neighborhood. A neighborhood populated by zombies and evil men.
I could only hope the bizarre noises and odd voices outside the van had frightened her enough to persuade her to stay in her new hiding place. As I’d already mused several times since the morning, losing Azazel to death, zombies, or both wouldn’t please Clare. If something irreversibly awful happened to our beloved furbaby, my wife would likely leave me, divorce me, murder me, or all of the above.
Kevin’s father edged cautiously toward the door and secured it. As soon as he returned to his huddle of sons, I noticed a set of quick flashes from the rear of my van, accompanied by the deafening sound of .45-caliber ammunition exploding from an unseen gun – directly into Larry and Curly’s foreheads. As the two older brothers crumpled to the ground, the lantern fell from Larry’s loosened grip and rolled under my van.
Even in the low light, I saw Kevin whirl toward me, his gun aimed at my head. No doubt he suspected the mysterious assassin was a friend of mine, but I was as clueless about the person’s identity as he was. Not so dimwitted, though, that I hesitated for long. Before Kevin had a chance to pull the trigger, I slammed my shoulder into his sternum, which sent him gasping to his knees and his gun skidding across the concrete.
“What da fuck?” I heard the father shout as he hurdled over the corpses of his two oldest sons and bolted toward the inner doorway.
Apparently, the big bully was more concerned with his own self-preservation than sparing his youngest son from an untimely demise. Since he surely had no desire to approach the outer door, which stood not far from the concealed shooter at the rear of my van, the utility room was his only viable escape route.
His cowardly move certainly didn’t surprise me; he’d likely raised his boys not as a trio of beloved sons, but rather as a band of subordinate miscreants. What did surprise me, however, was seeing the familiar face of the next-door neighbor as he emerged from the shadows. Without making eye contact, he hastened between me and the still-kneeling Kevin, leapt up the steps, and fired off three rounds into the darkness. Based on the grunts and thuds coming from the kitchen, I assumed he’d successfully hit “Paw” – and another round seemed to finish the job.
Meanwhile, a sturdy teenager stepped from the shadows behind my van, pointed his 9mm Glock at the back of Kevin’s head, and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains splattered on my clothes as the kid fell forward, but I was too paralyzed to move. For some reason, the only notion that kept circling through my mind was that, except for Kevin, I’d never learned my attackers’ real names. How ironic that the four of them had died first, when I’d considered the real possibility that my end would come long before theirs.
Clearly, I was in shock, rattled by the sudden reversal of fortune, fixated on mundane thoughts, and awaiting my own potential head shot. No guarantee, after all, that the enemies of my enemies were indeed my friends.
I was so focused on Kevin’s crumpled body at my feet that it took me more than a moment to realize the teenager was standing in front of me, holding the retrieved lantern and staring at me with visible concern. The man, meanwhile, had stepped beside me and squeezed my left shoulder.
“Y’alright, son?”
I turned my head to survey him in the lantern light. Calling me son would’ve seemed odd coming from a man who couldn’t be more than fifty, not even a decade older than I was, but he looked like the type that would use his “father voice” with anyone he believed needed protection and comfort. Tall and as solid as a brick shithouse, he had the close-cut hair, no-nonsense air, and practical apparel of a military man. Likely a Marine. And a Cajun, to boot.
Equally well-built, neatly groomed, and sensibly dressed, the teenager looked like a mini-version of the man. No doubt his son.
“Guess so,” I said, gazing back at the father. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added, “Thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”
“No problem.” He grinned. “Name’s Ray.” He nodded toward the teenager. “Dat’s my boy, Travis.”
Ray and Travis both sported a thick Cajun-Yat dialect. I’d encountered it often during my time in New Orleans, and frankly, I’d never tired of hearing all the varying accents in my adopted home of southern Louisiana.
“I’m Joe Daniels.”
“Nice to meet ya, Joe,” Ray said, shaking my hand with a predictably strong grip.
“Hey, mister,” Travis said, drawing my attention back to him. He was scanning my van with wide eyes. “Cool rig.” Spoken in a dreamy tone, as if he’d forgotten he’d just shot someone in the head.
Instead, he resembled his age again, like a boy who’d seen his first treehouse.
“Would be even cooler if she didn’t have a leaky radiator,” I lamented. “And a busted side mirror.”
Blood, brains, bone, and zombie goo covered much of my trusty van, and frankly, it had begun to reek. My shotgun needed a bit of scouring, too, but first, I had to retrieve it from where I’d reluctantly surrendered it in the den.
A glint drew my focus to the ground, where I spotted my keys beside Kevin’s motionless hand. I crouched down and picked them up.
“Hate to seem ungrateful, but I need to check the van,” I said, straightening up. “Make sure my cat, Azazel, is still inside. I’m afraid all the gunshots might’ve made her bolt, and with the garage door open…”
Travis swallowed, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. Dat was my fault. Forgot to shut it when we slipped inside.”
I smiled. “You and your dad saved my life. I can hardly complain. But my wife’ll kill me if something happens to Azazel.”
Just then, I heard padded feet on the steps behind me, followed by a plaintive whine. Turning, I noted the dog I’d rescued standing inside the garage.
“Nice of you to show up,” I said. “See you waited ’til the coast was clear.”
Ignoring me, the dog trotted past Ray and paused beside Travis. He nudged the boy’s denim-clad knee with his nose, until, with an unabashed grin, Travis knelt on the floor and gave the eager pup a vigorous petting.
“Looks like he knows you,” I said.
“He does,” Travis admitted. “He’s Frankie. Da Hamiltons’ dog.”
“Dis was da Hamiltons’ house,” Ray explained. “Dog ran away right before dey packed up an’ left. Tried to find him, but dey was too scared to stay.”
As I’d suspected, the dog belonged there. No wonder he’d tried to dig his way into the backyard instead of fleeing the zombies. He probably figured he’d find safety with his family, but sadly, they’d already left him behind.
“Can’t blame them, I guess.” My eyes drifted to the rear of the van, and I silently prayed Azazel was alright. “But I could’ve never left my cat behind.” I glanced back at Ray.
He nodded, plucked the lantern from the floor beside his son, and walked toward the front of my van. “Mind if I take a look atcha radiator?”
“Be my guest.”
He seemed like a resourceful guy. M
aybe he’d have more luck repairing it than I’d had so far.
Leaving Travis to comfort Frankie, and Ray to peek under my hood, I stepped toward the rear of my van. My chest tightened, as I feared the worst. Most of the time, Azazel was feisty and brave, but as with most dogs and cats, loud noises scared the crap out of her. Fireworks, thunderstorms, rumbling trucks, falling trees, and gunshots usually drove her under the nearest chair or table. But with the van doors and a garage entrance open, all bets were off. Even for a lifelong indoor cat.
Although bustling French Quarter streets and the wildlife-filled woods of northern Michigan had always fascinated her, they’d routinely terrified her as well, enough to keep her furry little ass inside. In fact, except for one time as a brash, three-month-old kitten, she’d never bolted through an open outer door. In the current situation, however, she might’ve found the outside world less threatening than usual.
Just be hiding in the damn van!
From the rear of the vehicle, I flipped on my hand-crank flashlight and scanned the van’s interior. Only a few tense seconds passed before I was rewarded with the sight of two glowing eyes peering at me from the driver’s-side footwell.
I smiled, the relief likely evident on my face. “Always knew you were a smart girl.”
She blinked once, and I returned the gesture.
“Sorry about the ruckus. I’ll try to keep it down. Just sit tight, OK?”
Then I pulled the tarp over my exposed cache of weapons, secured the doors, and strolled to the front of the van. With the lantern perched on my radiator, Ray leaned over the engine compartment, gripped the busted hose, and examined the area for additional damage. When he sensed me beside him, he stepped back from the van, wiping excess coolant from his hands.
“I can fix dis for ya.”
“Seriously? That would be awesome.”
He nodded toward the side-view mirror. “Can fix dat, too. Course, in a pinch, all ya need is a li’l duct tape.”
“Yeah, I forgot a few key items when I was packing up, but luckily, a nice guy back in New Orleans took pity on me and gave me some tape before I left town. Just haven’t had a chance to fix it yet.”
“Well, ya got a chance now. Hard enough drivin’ out dere wit’out bein’ half-blind.”
“True enough,” I said. “But I don’t know how to repay you. I already owe you for my life.”
Ray gazed at his son, who sat on the concrete floor, surrounded by dead bodies and wrestling with the dog.
“You saved da dog. Dat’d make him yours, but… let Travis take him an’ do me one more favor, an’ I’d say we’re even.”
“Looks like Frankie already made that decision for us,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think Azazel would appreciate him much.”
The Cajun dude and his son had saved my life, rescuing me (and my cat) from a bunch of murderous rednecks. On top of that, he was offering to repair my radiator and my side-view mirror. Figured the least I could do was give him the shaggy dog I’d just met and help him with whatever task he had in mind.
I glanced at Ray. “What do you need from me?”
Ray’s focus shifted from me to Travis. “Son, go git my red toolbox. An’ bring ya li’l sis back witcha. Tell her to pack her 9mm.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied with the discipline of a Marine sergeant. Then, he rose to his feet, approached the garage door, and flipped on a small flashlight.
As he peered through the glass window, no doubt checking for trouble, Frankie scrambled to his feet, too. Obviously protective of his new family, the dog trailed behind Travis and nudged the teenager’s leg.
Turning, Travis simply said, “Stay here, boy. I’ll be right back.” Then, he readied his gun, turned the knob, and slipped into the darkness, shutting the door behind him.
“Wait,” I said to Ray. “Should he really be out there by himself?”
“Trust me,” he said. “Dat boy know his way round a gun.”
Instinctively, I glanced down at Kevin’s mutilated skull and recalled how Travis had killed him without hesitation.
Yeah, no shit he can handle himself.
Ray had obviously taught him well – a fact for which I’d be eternally grateful.
Chapter
10
“Trust’s a tough thing to come by these days.” – MacReady, The Thing (1982)
Frankie sat on his hindquarters a few feet from the door, fixated on the glass and patiently awaiting Travis’s return.
Ray, meanwhile, surveyed the bodies still lying on the concrete floor, his expression stoic. Not remorseful at all. Hell, I wasn’t sorry either that the assholes were dead.
Better them than me.
Besides, if vigilante justice was ever socially acceptable, I had to believe it was during a zombie apocalypse.
I just didn’t think I could’ve dispatched the rednecks as rapidly as he and his son had. I’d only shot my first man that morning, and even though it had been a clear case of kill-or-be-killed, murdering humans didn’t come as easily to me as putting down zombies. Ray, however, was as solid as iron, as sharp as nails, and as accurate as a heat-seeking missile, and Travis seemed to be following in his father’s footsteps.
I felt like one lucky bastard, thankful they’d decided to sneak into the Hamiltons’ garage when they did. Armed and ready to take out the neighborhood looters. If they’d waited a few more minutes, mine might’ve been one of the bloody bodies on the floor. My only consolation was knowing I would’ve stayed dead and not arisen as an undead carnivore.
First, because the rednecks would’ve likely shot me in the head.
Thanks a lot, assholes.
And second, as far as I knew, you had to be bitten to turn into a zombie. It didn’t seem like a situation where a virus lay dormant in every living human, ensuring we’d all turn into zombies after death, no matter if we’d been bitten or not. At least, I’d seen no evidence of that yet. Every zombie I’d encountered so far had sported an obvious wound or missing body part.
All I’d learned from my friends, Samir and Dibya, was that the zombie epidemic had started in their home country – India – and if I’d correctly grasped their reasoning, the infection itself had likely come from “somewhere else,” whatever the hell that meant.
True, Myriam Beauvoir – the laundromat-owning voodoo priestess who’d saved my ass in the French Quarter – had mentioned a place called the Infernal. But seeing as how I’d never heard of that before, I couldn’t automatically assume that somewhere else and the Infernal were one and the same. Especially since the details of the epidemic’s origins were still nebulous at best, and with Samir and Dibya likely long-deceased, I certainly couldn’t ask them for a better explanation.
Someday, perhaps, someone would uncover the real facts of how the whole end-of-the-world crisis had begun, but for the moment, all I needed to know was that the zombie infection had spread around the globe and that I had to stay alive long enough to protect my feline spitfire and see my beloved wife again.
I glanced at Ray. “Did you know those guys?”
He shook his head. “Not from aroun’ here. We saw ’em go into several houses ’long da street. T’ought about droppin’ ’em den, but dey was only goin’ into empty places.”
I nodded in understanding. Why risk his life, and those of his kids, to stop some armed looters? Though tempted, I refrained from asking why he and his children had opted to stay behind in the first place when most (if not all) of their neighbors had already fled. They seemed more practical and resourceful than that – the type of streetwise survivalists that would’ve had a bug-out site in mind.
“But den Travis saw ’em enter dis house,” Ray continued, “as you was savin’ da dog out back.”
I waited for a smart-ass comment about putting myself at risk for a damn dog, but it never came. Regardless, I almost opened my mouth to justify myself (and what some might think was a misguided preference for animals) by saying that pets could become zombified creatures, too,
and ultimately turn on their families, but I hadn’t actually witnessed that yet. So far, dogs, cats, and other non-human animals appeared to be just more fodder for overactive, ever-present undead appetites. And after the corpses I’d already seen in the French Quarter and elsewhere, I couldn’t have stomached watching poor Frankie get eviscerated by those two zombies. Especially since he reminded me of my parents’ old griffon, Gypsy – the finest dog I’d ever known.
“Knew we best git over here before dey didya in,” Ray admitted.
Well, ain’t that something. Saved several times today cuz of my love for animals.
Once the gunshots had stopped ringing in my ears, and I’d realized my new pals had no intention of killing me as well, I’d briefly wondered if rescuing Frankie had saved my life. I gazed at the dog, who still stood by the door but had pivoted himself around to watch me. For a moment, I held his eyes, long enough to convince myself we shared a mutual understanding and perhaps even mutual respect. I’d saved him from the zombies, and he, in turn, had spared me from the rednecks’ bloody fate via the neighborly intervention of Ray and Travis.
Suddenly, Frankie shifted his focus beyond me and unleashed a guttural bark. Alarmed, I whirled around and noted Azazel’s face, forepaws, and upper torso in the passenger-side window. She’d apparently climbed onto her carrier, leaned against the glass, and spotted Frankie in the shadows with her impressive night vision. Of course, she was hissing and grunting at the strange if friendly-looking dog. And Frankie, who stood on all fours in a protective stance, was growling in return.
Sighing, I turned to Ray. “See what I mean? Taking Frankie was never a possibility.”
Ray chuckled, then frowned. “We best calm ’em down, or dey’ll lure ev’ry zombie in da area.”
I certainly didn’t want such an outcome, not the least of which because Travis and his little sister still had to navigate their way back to the Hamiltons’ garage. In the dark, no less.
Zombie Chaos (Book 2): Highway to Hell Page 8